


a harmonious entity

by brawlite



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Cults, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fanatical Religious Beliefs, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Mystery, Undercover Missions, alternative universe, i truly cannot emphasize enough that they are not good people, if anything this is psychological/real-life horror, not an epistolary, nothing supernatural for once, protagonists as antagonists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: When Hux's best friend Phasma goes missing, Hux travels to the mountains of rural Montana to investigate the mysterious cult,the First Order, that Hux believes to be behind her disappearance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, flds, for giving me the inspiration i needed to write about a fanatical cult. this story is dedicated to my truly obsessive interest in secret, corrupt, & zealous organizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is not an epistolary -- just the first chapter.

**From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Thursday, January 3, 2019 8:34 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Happy Birthday!

Hux,

Sorry I didn’t reply to your last email. It’s been really crazy here in Wisdom recently. In the last couple of months we’ve had three missing persons cases, which is really a lot for a town the size of a postage stamp. I’ve been putting in so much overtime working on it I can barely tell night from day, so it totally slipped my mind to reply.

Anyway, happy birthday! I hope work and life have been treating you well. Do you have any fun plans for the day, or are you going to drown yourself in work as per usual?

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Friday, January 4, 2019 5:07 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Happy Birthday!

Phasma,

Thank you for the birthday wishes. I’m sorry to say I spent the day in the lab. Government contract work -- you know how it goes. As my best friend lives across the country, I also didn’t really have anyone to celebrate with, either.

That was, by no means, me trying to guilt trip you into visiting, though you know that you are always more than welcome. I just don’t have many acquaintances that I’d enjoy going out with, as you know.

Three missing persons? This is on top of the missing persons from last year, I’m assuming? Christ, Phasma -- stay safe.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Friday, January 4, 2019 10:10 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Happy Birthday!

Hux,

Is it too much to ask that you sleep in like a regular person? Up and replying to emails at 5am is a crime against humanity. At least sleep in till six like we do in the sheriff’s department.

I promise I’ll stay safe. We’re pretty sure it’s those crazies up in the mountains again, with all their zealous nonsense. I’m sure the missing people will come back safe and sound like they usually do. Besides, there’s not too much trouble a lowly deputy can get into, right?

So, how’s work? Have you made any progress? I hear the new administration has been making government work...difficult, if you believe what the papers say.

I’m moving, by the way! I recently put some of my savings toward building my own little place. I’ll send you some pictures, soon.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Saturday, January 5, 2019 6:09 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Happy Birthday!

Phasma,

Work is fine. Funding is ever an issue. It keeps drying up unexpectedly and I keep finding myself attending conferences to lobby for more collaborative funding. It’s very tedious, and not at all what I’d like to be doing with my time.

As for my work: most of the details are classified, I do not have much that I can share. All I can say is that progress is slow, but steady. It is very rewarding work, but also, at times, insurmountably frustrating.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, February 20, 2019 4:41 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Pictures  
**Attachments:** 12842.jpg; 12843.jpg; 12846.jpg; 12847.jpg; 12848.jpg; 12850.jpg; 12851.jpg

Hux,

I’ve attached some pictures of my new house, mostly to brag, but also to try and entice you to come visit. The third picture shows the guest room and its outrageously comfortable bed. I also included a couple pictures of the town because the sunsets were killer. And, get this, the last picture is of the entrance to the cult. I finally got up there and managed a good shot without anyone yelling at me. It looks pretty sketchy, right? I can’t believe people actually choose to live there...well, if they’re _choosing_ at all.

As you can see in the pictures, it’s a little too snowy to go hiking right now. It’d be murder for the trails. So, for now, I’m stuck inside relaxing. Ah, the simple life of a PhD drop-out. No fighting for government funding for me, just relaxing with cocoa and filing animal control paperwork.

If you can pry yourself away from work for a week, you could come visit sometime in the spring or summer. It’s beautiful when everything’s green.

Phasma

 

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Thursday, February 28, 2019 6:09 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Pictures

Phasma,

Sorry about the delay. Funding ran out and we had to secure more immediately. I was attending conferences for things not even remotely related to virology. Your simple life of cocoa was sounding appealing for a moment there. It would have sounded more appealing, if I didn’t know all that inactivity would drive me absolutely crazy.

Thank you for the pictures. Your house is lovely and the views are lovelier still (even with all the snow). It’s a good thing you don’t mind the cold.

Did those missing persons ever turn up?

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Thursday, February 28, 2019 11:46 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Pictures  


Hux,

Not yet. We’ve got our fingers crossed, though.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, March 13, 2019 6:09 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Checking in

Phasma,

It’s starting to feel like every month there’s some funding crisis or another. Reserves are running low, again. You would think, if the government wants us doing their work for them, they’d be a bit better at securing a means to make that happen.

My lab assistants today were absolutely atrocious. They are Ivy-educated, but that clearly has little meaning any longer, given how frightfully incompetent they are. Even the most simple of basic logical reasoning is too much for them to grasp. I know you would commiserate.

How are your missing persons cases going? I do hope that you are staying safe.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Thursday, March 14, 2019 8:24 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Checking in

Hux,

Aw, were you worried about me?

Don’t worry, Armie, you know I can take care of myself.

Finding good help these days is tough. Don’t crucify the poor lab assistants, though, Hux. You’re clearly expecting more out of them than they are capable of. It’s a pity, but sometimes your best bet is firing them and finding more competent assistants -- if that’s possible.

Or, clone yourself. You know you’ve got the goods to be able to do the job. ;)

I have to go -- work is calling. A couple of out-of-state hikers were lost up in the woods. With the snow and the cold temperatures, we’re a little concerned.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Tuesday, April 2, 2019 6:09 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Update

Hux,

Things are getting kind of weird.

We haven’t found the hikers, yet, but we did find all of their clothes and their gear.  It wasn’t strewn around, either: it was all just set to the side by a relatively unused trailhead. Everything was carefully packed away and in good condition.

That’s not even the weirdest part: the trail is way too close to that cult I keep telling you about to rule out their involvement. Problem is, we can’t get anyone who will talk with us.

Also, I keep getting these strange phone calls. They happen at all hours of the day. When I pick up, it’s just dead air. I’ve tried letting them go unanswered, but if I do that, they just keep calling and calling and calling. We can’t get anything when we trace the number, either.

Is it too much to hope for a little breaking and entering, or something? Just to spice up what is now becoming too routine?

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Tuesday, April 2, 2019 10:39 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Update

Phasma,

This isn’t sounding good. I’m not sure that your position as a deputy is more important than your safety. Perhaps you could go back to being a part-time yoga instructor. Or, quit entirely, finish up your PhD, and continue your work in genetics. The field would be lucky to have you in it once more.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, April 3, 2019 3:54 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Update

Hux,

I know this job is relatively new to me, and I know that you think that my life is being wasted here in Montana -- don’t argue, I know I’m right -- but this is my life. I’m happy with it and this job is important to me. This _life_ is important to me.

A few bumps in the road doesn’t mean that everything is in the toilet. It also doesn’t mean that my life is in any danger. I can deal with a few creepy phone calls, thank you.

In other news, when are you going to come visit?

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Tuesday, April 3, 2019 11:12 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Update

Phasma,

I’m not going to lie, you’re right. I think that your potential is far greater than you rotting away in a small town that no one’s ever heard of. Your contributions to the scientific community could be numerous and paramount. But -- you are correct: it’s your life.

I would gladly take my unfathomably incompetent lab assistants over tedious police reports and a distantly looming cult who is no doubt behind your unsettling phone calls. But I suppose that is simply personal preference.

I will come visit when the drive from the nearest airport ceases to be four hours and when your town has more than one landmark that isn’t a lodge covered in record-breaking amounts of taxidermy. Besides, I enjoy your visits, however infrequent, to New York.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Thursday, April 4, 2019 9:08 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Update

Hux,

Your blatant disdain for the world and everyone in it is refreshing.

Maybe I’ll try and visit sometime in the fall.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, April 21, 2019 2:03 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** UGH!!!

Hux,

Someone just rang my doorbell five times. I’d like to point out that it is the middle of the night.

I might have to go on a bender and burn down the whole cult, Hux. I’m pretty sure they’re behind this and the phone calls, not to mention all those kidnappings. I think they deserve a little fire, right?

Ugh. Hopefully I’m not too angry to get back to sleep.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, April 21, 2019 9:22 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: UGH!!!

Phasma,

I would suggest that you call the police, but given that you _are_ the police, I believe that more drastic measures need to be taken.

Please stay safe.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, April 21, 2019 5:44 PM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: UGH!!!

Hux,

Don’t worry, I’m fine.

Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, April 21, 2019 8:17 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: UGH!!!

Phasma,

Fine, I will stop worrying textually at you, but I will not stop worrying entirely. I don’t like the sound of this situation, nor its escalation. But, I do have the utmost faith in your person and your ability to keep yourself safe. Anyone who were to break into your house would be one unlucky son of a gun.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, May 22, 2019 6:05 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Happy Birthday  


Phasma,

I wish you the best today. I hope you have been well (and also safe). I do hope that the sheriff’s department has given you the day off as a consolation for all of the hard work you have been doing for them.

I know you enjoy an absurd amount of relaxation on your birthday, so I will keep this short: Happy Birthday. I have sent a few recently published studies on genetics from the NIH in your direction. They are not yet available to the public, so please keep them confidential. They were shipped priority, so they should arrive shortly.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Friday, May 24, 2019 9:47 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Follow up

Phasma,

The package should have been delivered today. Have you received it?

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, May 26, 2019 2:33 PM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Follow up, Again

Phasma,

I have not heard from you, nor are you answering your phone. I know that you don’t appreciate my fretting about your safety, but please let me know that you are alright at your earliest convenience.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, May 29, 2019 4:56 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Concerned, Please Reply

Phasma,

Please reply with your status.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Wednesday, June 5, 2019 4:30 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** [None]

Phasma,

I have contacted your sheriff’s department, and they consider you to be a missing person.

They have told me to await any further news.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, June 30, 2019 3:27 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** [None]

Phasma,

I wish I knew that you were safe.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** S.F.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Monday, July 1, 2019 11:15 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** Gwendoline

Dear Armitage Hux,

My name is Simone Phasma, Gwendoline’s mother. I do not believe that we have ever met, though I have heard many great things about you through my daughter. Your continued friendship after her termination of University has meant a great deal to her, and I fully appreciate your dedication to each other, even though you took separate paths in life.

Gwendoline has gone missing. I received word that you inquired about her whereabouts through the Sheriff’s department. They are mounting a full investigation, though this is not the only missing persons case in the area. I’m afraid there are many more.

I’m afraid this has something to do with a secretive compound of persons who live just outside the town limits. Unfortunately, with no probable cause, the sheriff’s department cannot investigate the grounds. And, without a warrant, their grounds are completely off-limits to anyone who wishes entry who is not a member of their compound. It sounds terribly suspicious to me.

I wanted to keep you informed of the situation, as well as to my suspicions, given your close friendship with my daughter. I will keep you apprised of any updates.

Regards,

Simone F. Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Monday, July 1, 2019 1:26 PM  
**To:** S.F.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Gwendoline

Dear Ms. Simone Phasma,

Thank you very much for your email. I appreciate your keeping me in the loop.

Please let me know if there is anything I can do.

Regards,

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Saturday, July 5, 2019 9:20 AM  
**To:** Gwen.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** [None]

Phasma,

I know that you will not reply to this email, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to. When I say that you are my only friend -- I truly mean it.

They cut my funding. They cut it completely and without warning.

I’m now without a job and all of my research has been taken from me.

For once in my life, I’m not entirely sure what to do.

I am now also without you, which is a new reality for me that I find myself ill-equipped to deal with. Even as far away as you were, your presence was always noted and appreciated.

I hope that you are alright.

I miss you.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, July 6, 2019 11:15 AM  
**To:** S.F.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Gwendoline

Ms. Simone Phasma,

Please let me if there is anything I can do, up to and including making my way up to Wisdom to aid you in any way necessary. I suddenly find myself unemployed with a dearth of time and energy at my disposal.

Gwendoline, ‘ _Phasma’_ as I call her, is exceptionally important to me. I would do anything and everything to get her back.

Hux

 

 

 **From:** S.F.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, July 6, 2019 11:15 AM  
**To:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Gwendoline  
**Attached:** AHuxItinerary.pdf

Dear Armitage,

I would appreciate any assistance possible. I believe I have a plan, though it would require your active participation, as well as a good deal of deception.

I cannot guarantee absolute safety.

I would prefer to discuss this in person. In the event that you are willing to listen to my proposal, I have purchased you a plane ticket from NYC to Glacier Park and have reserved you a rental car for your drive to Wisdom. You can find all of the relevant information for your travel itinerary, as well as reservation numbers and maps, in the attached document.

I understand if you are not willing, and will harbor no ill-will toward you if that is the case. I also want to stress that, should you wish to decline my offer upon hearing my proposal, I completely understand. You have no obligation.

And please, call me Simone.

Simone F. Phasma

 

 

 **From:** ArmitageHux@gmail.com  
**Sent:** Sunday, July 6, 2019 1:29 PM  
**To:** S.F.Phasma@gmail.com  
**Subject:** RE: Gwendoline

Simone,

Again, I would do anything and everything to ensure Phasma’s safe return.

I will see you in less than a week.

Hux


	2. Chapter 2

It’s raining when Hux pulls past the roadside sign that welcomes him to Wisdom.

The town is small and quaint, tucked securely in a valley between two mountains. The buildings are small and weather-worn and the cars are old and loved, if they aren’t sitting abandoned by the side of the road. Given the RV-park Hux drove past on his way here, and the looks of housing in the town, it’s a safe bet that the majority of the populus calls the park its home. There’s one bar, one post office, and one general store that boasts the sales of hardware, liquor, and also food.

The town is everything Hux expected, given the pictures Phasma has sent him over the years.

It’s the precise reason Hux has never come to visit: it’s too quaint, too rustic, too small. He likes the crowded, packed streets of New York City, the push and thrum of humanity all around him. Even if he hates people, loathes them straight to his very core, it’s preferable to this. At least in the city, Hux has anonymity. He doesn’t have to know his neighbors, doesn’t even have to remember their faces. In a city like this? You can’t escape people.

Hux sighs. The quiet rumble of his rental jeep has already attracted the attention of some locals sitting on their porch, who were evidently doing little more than watching the world go by. He raises a hand off the steering wheel in greeting, gritting his teeth as he twists his lips up into something that resembles a smile. He hates pleasantries, hates bending to the societal pressure to be friendly to people he dislikes, but he is a stranger here. Hux knows that he needs to tread lightly, especially given that he is traipsing into a town with many active police reports, a small community that likely distrusted outsiders even before their brush with mystery.

His GPS instructs him to trundle past the lazy onlookers and turn down onto a gravel road, winding his way slightly outside the small town limits. It’s hard to believe he drove through the majority of the town in about less than a minute, but he didn’t expect much more.

Two rights, then a left, and Hux is left outside a small wood A-frame house that he recognizes from Phasma’s pictures: her recently-built home.

A blonde woman about as tall as Phasma, if not taller, stands and waits for him on the porch. Her smile, while dutifully friendly, is twisted with sadness and concern. Even from far away, she looks distraught. Hux meets her on the steps, suitcase in hand.

“Simone Phasma,” she says with an outstretched hand, as if he couldn’t have guessed. Her similarity to his Phasma is absolutely striking: she looks the same, really, just older. And even then, she is aging remarkably well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“I can say the same,” Hux says, grasping her hand in a firm shake.

For once, his words are true: it is truly a pleasure to meet this woman. Hux has heard a lot about her through Phasma. Simone had been heavily involved in scientific research, back in the day -- a true visionary. Her interests in the scientific field were one of the reasons her daughter pursued a career in genetics in the first place. And, when Gwen decided to drop from her PhD program, she retreated back to her hometown to live near her mother once more with no judgement held. From everything Hux has heard, the two are very close.

“Please, please, come in,” Simone tells him, ushering Hux inside the house.

Once inside, he finds himself sitting on a cozy couch, glass of lemonade in hand. His suitcase has been deposited outside the guest room Hux can only assume is the one he’s seen countless pictures of. Phasma’s mother appears to be staying in the master bedroom.

“This is sort of home-base,” Simone tells him. “I live a bit further out, but I want to be close into town to be by the sheriff’s office, just in case.”

“Understandable,” Hux says, taking a sip of the lemonade. It’s good: not too sweet, and lemony enough to make his lips tingle. It tastes perfectly refreshing after his long drive.

“Would you like to settle-in at all?” Simone asks, setting out a few different sorts of nibbly snacks on the rustic coffee table. Hux takes a handful of some crunchy mix and leans back against the brightly colored pillows on the couch. He surveys the room with a careful eye, noting the modern, yet country decor, the simple frames and the bright splashes of personality. This place is so _Phasma_ , down to every last detail: it’s hard to remember that she’s missing, that she’s not here right now, about to appear from another room.

“No,” Hux says, because he suddenly misses Phasma more fiercely than before. “I’d like to hear your plan.”

Simone settles into a worn leather armchair adjacent to Hux. She sips at her lemonade, looking thoughtful and suddenly exhausted. “It’s that damn cult that did this, Armitage. I know it.”

“That was my thought as well.”

Simone’s face falls into a scowl. “The law enforcement has their hands tied. They refuse to do anything that might come across as a violation of religious freedoms when they can’t find enough evidence to issue a warrant.”

Hux scoffs. From what Phasma has told him of the cult, they just appear to be a bunch of lunatics up in the mountains wearing white robes and renouncing all of their worldly possessions. He’d hardly call that a basis for _religious freedom_ \-- but then again, Hux has never been much of a religious person.

“So,” Hux prompts, understanding the plan before she can even explain it. “You need a man inside.”

“Indeed,” Simone says, sounding pleased at his uptake. “I can’t do it because I’ve already confronted them about my daughter. I wish I hadn’t done it, but my rage got the better of me.”

“That’s understandable.” Hux likely would have done something similar and rash, had he been here the whole time. His distance from this place has proven useful; it has afforded them both with an opportunity they would not otherwise have had. “So, what do I do? Just show up at the gates? I’ll need to know a bit more about the organization, if I’m to appear as if I’d truly wish to join.” Hux knows that he is a decent actor: he spends most of his days pretending to tolerate his lab assistants and not loathe his coworkers. He is generally well-liked at work -- or the place he called work, anyway. Now that he is jobless, he at least doesn’t have to pretend any longer. But he does need a little bit of information to go on, to appear believable.

“I can give you everything you need to know to make a convincing argument,” Simone tells him. She smiles and leans forward, putting a hand on his knee. “Thank you so much, Armitage. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here.”

Hux doesn’t know either. At least now, Phasma has a chance.

\--

Hux fans the brochures out on the guest bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of stacks of research. Simone Phasma is anything if not thorough.

Judging by the sheer amount of paper, it looks as if Simone has been dedicating all of her time into researching this cult, the one who Hux is ninety-nine percent certain is behind the disappearance of her daughter. It’s enough research to write a decent dissertation, he thinks, even if some of it is contradictory and there are very few first-hand accounts. Still -- it is enough.

_The First Order_ , they are called. It’s a bit science-fiction-y for Hux’s tastes, but he supposes he doesn’t get to be too choosy about what cult he’s going to join.

They seem to be relatively run-of-the-mill in terms of cults. They’ve been around, the research says, since right after World War II, which is a decently long run in terms of fundamentalist groups. Or -- Hux supposes they are fundamentalist. He isn’t quite sure, as there isn’t much publicized about their scripture or traditions; it’s simply an educated guess.

Hux pushes some of the papers out of the way, clearing a space for a notebook. It’s best to keep these things on pen and paper, he thinks. Just in case.

_Facts --_ , he writes at the top of the page, and then begins listing pertinent bullet points underneath:

  * One website with one page, no links.
    * Webpage lists the divining power of _The Force_
    * _Free yourself, expand your mind, unleash your ultimate potential_
    * Find true happiness through meditation, labor, and devotion
  * Multiple pamphlets found in nearby cities, none outside of a one-hundred-mile-radius.
    * Pamphlets list similar objectives as the website
    * Common difference: pamphlets invite those who have feel like _outsiders_ to join
  * Entry to compound allowed only for members of the organization
  * ‘Traditional’ clothing, people seen beyond the gates in white (linen?) robes. Loose fitting, no personal possessions.
  * People rarely seen coming and going, but occasionally large black SUV’s depart the facility
  * Facility itself is entirely fenced in and patrolled 24/7
  * Drone-attempted surveillance consistently fails



_Theories --_ , Hux lists underneath the facts:

  * The missing persons have been taken by the First Order
  * The missing persons have either been brainwashed to join the ranks, or they have been killed and their bodies have been disposed of within the compound
  * Stable leadership, perhaps a legacy: the continued existence of the cult suggests that both the belief system and the leadership are firm and without obvious resistance
  * Huge compound, presumably more people than they report to the census (they consistently report less than 100)
  * Compound must be self-sustaining. If they rarely leave, they are making neither grocery nor supply runs
  * Compound must have some financial resources
    * Perhaps requesting donations from members?
  * Nefarious reasons for continued existence
    * All cults exist for some heinous reason or another, correct?



He sighs, leaning back and running his hands over his his eyes, his face.

It’s a lot. The sheer amount of information is absolutely overwhelming. There’s also so much of it in what Hux recognizes to be Phasma’s handwriting, not Simone’s. Phasma must have been amassing it for quite some time. It isn’t surprising that she’d be doing research on the sly, but Hux would have hoped she’d trust him to talk about it more. If she had, if Hux had been more trustworthy or even more interested, maybe Phasma wouldn’t be gone and Hux wouldn’t have to be worried.

No -- no, he can’t think like that. It doesn’t help anyone, just like how dwelling on the cult’s reason for existence isn’t helping. He doesn’t need to figure out the secret -- he just needs to get his friend back.

There’s got to be another way into the compound, Hux thinks, it’s just that no one seems to have found it, yet. The winding roads around the mountains are numerous and unsigned, and any sort of reception up there is spotty, at best. Hux could go explore, but he’d likely end up lost, himself, which would do noone any good at all.  

Hux isn’t sure that’s going to stop him, though.

\--

“Alright, First Order, let’s see what you’ve got,” Hux says, clicking his seat-belt in and throwing the Jeep into reverse.

Both a good night’s sleep and jetlag going in the right direction had Hux up before dawn. The dawn chorus was a nice thing to wake up to -- something he didn’t have in the city, but he didn’t allow himself much of a lie-in to properly enjoy it. That could wait. He had shared his need to scope out the cult with Simone over a simple breakfast of oatmeal, who had sympathized in a worried, but understanding fashion. She had set him up with a satellite GPS, a battery pack, and a large lunch, in the event that he was out all day.

Once he pulls out onto what could perhaps be called a highway if one were feeling generous, Hux spares a glance at his passenger’s seat. He’s brought absolutely nothing that could tie him to the First Order, or a police investigation, or anything of the like. Instead, he has three books on local birds, two pairs of binoculars, a jacket in the event of wind, and a pair of wellies he fully intends on not using. It’s for the look, not the necessity.

He wants zero ties to his quest to find more information about the First Order if he were to cross paths with any of their lot. Lucky for him, he can play the dumb tourist; he even still has hints of his accent, from his childhood in the British Isles, and he’s far too clean-shaven to look much like anyone who lives in these parts year-round. Too much of a yuppie hipster, as Phasma always told him.

It’s now, thinking about driving these roads with Phasma in the passenger seat, that her absence feels keenly raw.

“I’m going to find you,” Hux says to the wind rushing through the open windows. “I promise, Phas’. I’m going to find you.”

The roads, once open and spacious, turn long and windy, with practically zero signage and somehow even fewer landmarks to navigate by. Still, he drives and drives. His GPS trucks along, pointing him in the general direction of the lake nearby the First Order’s massive gate. Without it, Hux thinks that he might end up lost for days.

The trees are different here, more evergreen and shorter than he’s used to -- likely due to the elevation. He continues up and up, twisting through switchbacks and plowing through mud puddles. It’s a good thing Simone rented him the jeep, or he might’ve gone for something so ill equipped for the the roads he would have turned back an hour ago. The views, up this high and through open windows, are spectacular. If this were a vacation, if he were just visiting, he’d be awed by their open beauty. Now? Hux can barely appreciate it over the pounding of his own heart.

Woods open up to barren mountainside roads. Some have barely anything at the side promising to catch the jeep if he got too close to the edge. He drives along carefully, praying not to come face-to-face with another driver. He never does. After a few hundred meters, the roads are once again engulfed in forests. The pattern continues until he is well into the wooded valley, tucked between lush and stately mountains.

As the crow flies, it can’t be far from Wisdom itself.

Time-wise, it’s taken Hux a little over an hour and a half, navigating back-country roads and teeth-grinding switchbacks, to get here.

He can see the gate in the distance, tucked underneath the towering giants that make up a grove of ponderosa pines. It doesn’t look like much, as far as gates go, but it still looks threatening, in a ‘ _keep out, private property’_ sort of way. The lake sits on his right, so he pulls up next to it in a patch of grass that’s low enough that Hux assumes people use it as a parking spot often enough. Maybe even people from the cult itself, though he’s sure there must be lakes in that expansive property of theirs.

He wonders if any of the townspeople have tried to fly drones over the land. If they had, what might they have seen?

He can’t see any security or surveillance equipment, though he thoroughly expects to see some outdated CCTV cameras hooked up to the gate, if he were to get close enough. Hux assumes that he’s already being watched, though; the cult must have a few lookouts around the gated area, just to keep trespassers at bay. It certainly feels like all of the trees have eyes, though he can blame that feeling on his own looming sense of dread and easily write it off.

Hux dons a baseball cap and immediately grits his teeth -- it’s not his style and he knows he looks like an idiot -- but needs must. Feeling like a backwoods tourist is preferable to possibly being offed for seeming nosy. He shucks on a vest, thanks to the early-morning chill of the air that still hasn’t yet burnt off in the mountains, and finally exits the jeep.

With a pair of binoculars around his neck and a small local bird-guide in his back pocket, he begins his traipsing through toward the lake. It’s the best spot to look for birds, and it puts a decent amount of distance between himself and the gate. There are no signs around the lake, but he can see enough ‘ _no trespassing’_ signs up on the fence that he knows to keep his distance. At least, for the beginning of the day.

For now, it’s a waiting game.

For all that Hux is disgruntledly playing at birdwatching, he doesn’t actually dislike birds. He’s taken his fair share of biology classes that the different genotypes and traits are at least somewhat interesting to search out in the wild. He is good at most things, and he has patience in droves when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve another person. When people are involved, somehow all of his patience and level-headedness flies straight out the window. It’s just that Hux can’t get past the general idiocy of most people, past their proclivity toward mania and too many emotions. People are unpredictable -- science, largely, is not. At least that’s what he strives toward, anyway.

Hux camps himself out on a bank of the small lake, perched on a fallen log. Around him, the forest is absolutely quiet. If there are people behind the gate of the First Order’s compound, they’re far away enough that Hux can’t hear them. Or, they’re resting for the morning. Or, they’re all aware of his presence, and keenly waiting for him to leave to resume...whatever it is that they do.

Stillness comes naturally to Hux. As a child, his parents always taught him to keep quiet and out of the way, to be unnoticeable. So, he does just that, fingers curled around his binoculars, just in case something interesting comes his way.

He takes the opportunity to look around him, looking past the lake to the gate he can see past it. It’s far enough away that Hux doesn’t feel like he’s encroaching, but close enough that he can get a general sense of the place. The road up to the gate is gravel, which stirs up enough dust and noise that any visitors will be spotted and heard before they get too close. It’s a decent idea, he thinks, even though he’s wondering if it’s not their only warning system.

Hux lets his eyes follow the shape of the gate as it shifts into a fence, first in one direction, then the other. It stretches farther than the eye can see, razor-wire curled around the top to discourage climbing. Hux doubts that’s the only deterrent, but it’s certainly the most eye-catching. There’s surprisingly little vegetation growing on the fence, which means it is both decently kept up and likely frequently patrolled.

A mountain bluebird chirps and flies into his line of vision, perching atop a branch in eyeline with the gate -- it’s a perfect opportunity, so Hux takes it. He focuses his binoculars on the bird, watching it preen and sing, and then focuses his sights on the gate behind it. It looks foreboding, he thinks. But perhaps it looks as ominous as it does because it is tinged with the aura of missing persons that clouds Hux’s interpretation of it. Without that, Hux has to admit that it simply looks like an unfriendly fence, built by disgruntled neighbors. There is nothing here that suggests malice, or even ill-will -- just a chilly exterior to discourage trespassing.

The bird flies away, and Hux moves his sights elsewhere. He knows he must keep up the appearance of birdwatching, flimsy as it is.

He spots a few grouse, and some ducks, as well as numerous songbirds he’s sure he’d care more about if circumstances were different. He skirts the edge of the lake and faces away from the gate for another hour, whiling away the time by watching a couple turtles search for food in the shallows. A woodpecker hammers away somewhere nearby and Hux sets out to find it. It’s both a good excuse to move and something interesting to look at. Hux has always liked woodpeckers, has admired their tenacity and their sounds. They should create a discordant din, but somehow the ring of their hammering always adds fades perfectly into the general sounds of the forest. It’s something to appreciate -- the ability to do one’s job non-disruptively, to hollow out a space for one’s needs and interests, without standing out.

Hux pushes through a thicket of what seems to be blackberries -- not quite ripe, but thorny nonetheless. He follows the sound, slowly meandering away from the gate and closer to the fence. He keeps his eyes on the trees, though, aware that there might be other eyes on him. Every once in awhile he stops and peers up into the canopy through the binoculars, still searching out the sound of the woodpecker.

The fence, when Hux finally makes his way to the cleared part of land between the forest and the compound and can actually admire it up close, is impressive. It’s taller than he thought -- perhaps nine feet, maybe more. There’s no way he could see over it, even as tall as he is. The whole thing is made out of pressure-treated wood -- looking not at all out of place, but not allowing any glimpses of life behind it, either.

There’s not much he can do with it, now that he’s here.

The razor-wire up top looks even nastier up close, though. Scaling it would be absolutely impossible, so he can write that passing thought off, plain and simple.

Hux shrugs, like an innocent bystander who has simply happened upon this place might, and moves on. He follows the fence and its cleared walkway between itself and the trees. It’s the easiest and most resistance-free path through the woods in search of the woodpecker -- it’d look stranger if he walked away from the fence, like he knew the dangers hidden behind it.

Eventually, Hux finds the bird. Hux is practically back at the gravel road when he spots it, low in a tree about twenty feet away. It’s beautiful, truly, with a red face and belly, and deep green plumage on its wings. He watches it for a while, crouched low in the thicket, and eventually he pulls out his book to identify it. Carefully, Hux pages through the correct section of the guide, finger landing on the correct entry: the Lewis’s woodpecker. He reads briefly about it, then focuses on the bird again.

It’s a calming exercise, birdwatching. There is a steady rhythm to it, a deep sort of forced-meditation. He would consider it as a hobby, if he didn’t live in the middle of a city.

Leaves crunch nearby, but Hux does not let himself startle.

The bird takes off and disappears into the trees.

Hux lets the binoculars fall down to his chest and turns toward the sound. He isn’t surprised to find a man there, leaning against a large pine. All casual-like. He practically blends into the forest, he looks so comfortable there.

“Hello,” Hux says, letting his accent lick at the shape of the word. He’s taking a risk, a bet, that being a foreigner here might help him. Many places, it wouldn’t.

“Hey,” the man says. He is generally nondescript -- a working-class white man with a hint of scruff, clad in a plaid shirt, jeans, and work-boots. Hux wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a lineup of others if he tried. “Birding?” the man asks.

“I am,” Hux answers. He spares a glance at the fence, eyes falling on one of the ‘ _No Trespassing’_ signs. “Oh no, I’m not trespassing, am I?” He even has the gumption to sound guilty, apologetic.

The man smiles. “Nope. This is state land, right here. You’re more than welcome to go birding,” he says. “But I saw you on my way through and figured I’d suggest wearing some orange. People hunt here, too. You wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a deer.”

Hux can’t tell if it’s a threat, but the man smiles as he says it and his body language doesn’t imply anything. He _could_ , perhaps, simply be passing along valuable information. But Hux does, in fact, know better than to assume good will.

Hux nods finds a grimace -- it’s not very hard. He’s a little put off about this whole thing. While he’d been expecting to find someone here in the woods, he wasn’t expecting to be snuck up on. The instinctual part of his brain has its hackles up, even if he’s not too worried. “Wouldn’t want that. I wouldn’t be much of a trophy.”

The man smiles again, this time a little easier. “Just be careful,” he says. “There are all sorts out in these mountains. You wouldn't want to run into the wrong kind.”

This is a line of conversation Hux thinks it best to avoid. He’s either going to skirt close to more threats, or to some casual biased hatred -- neither of which he’d like to touch on today. This isn't his country, isn't his town. If he says the wrong thing to the wrong person, trying to play into anything or save face, he might end up in a dangerous place. He's better killing the line of conversation where it starts, not encouraging anything at all, other than laid-back friendliness and vague intrigue. “This your land?” Hux nods at the fence, summoning all of the common curiosity he can.

“I work there,” the man answers. “The folks who own the property are real big on privacy, Used to have some problems with travelers camping on their land, so they finally had enough and built this damn fence. It’s overkill, if you ask me.” He shrugs. “But it does the job.”

“It a farm?” Hux asks. Up in the wooded mountains, he can’t see a real steady opportunity to farm, but he’s curious how self-sustaining the cult is. If he looks out over the fence, he can see breaks in the trees where there might be some cleared land.

“Sure is,” the man tells him. “The road splits a ways back thataway.” He gestures over the fence, past where Hux can’t see. “One side goes up into the mountains, the other, down into the valley. Real fertile land, there. Makes for good farming.”

The man doesn’t look much like a farmer. He’s built more like a security guard, like one of the ones in New York City. Fit and muscled, but fast. Hux isn’t stupid enough to ask what he does.

“You mind if I keep birdwatching here, or do you think it’ll upset the owners of the property?” He thinks it’s a safe bet, mentioning the owners. Hux _doesn’t_ want to upset them, and he also doesn’t want this man to think he knows what’s behind the gate. If Hux knew, he wouldn’t be birdwatching here. He wouldn’t be here at all. He’s smarter than that.

The man just smiles. “You go on ahead. As long as you don’t try and climb the fence, you’re all good to birdwatch wherever you please.” Hux has a peculiar feeling of there being too many eyes on him, all at once. Even if it’s just this man  and him here. He knows they’re not alone. “Just consider keeping close to the roads, friend. Wouldn’t want a hunter getting his sights on you.”

“Thanks,” Hux says, feeling a shiver go down his spine. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

The man nods and heads back the way he came, past the gate, following the line of the fence into the distance. Only once does he turn around, a little bit back from the gate. “One more thing,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“If you want to come in, alls you have to do is knock.”

\--

Hux fights a chill as he robotically eats his ham and cheese sandwich. He isn’t hungry, but he needs to eat, needs the calories. He  relocated after his run-in with the man by the gate, backtracking down the road until he came to a quiet grove about an hour out from Wisdom. Now he’s closed in his car, doors locked but windows cracked ever so slightly. Just enough to let some fresh air in.

He doesn’t know what to make of his encounter with the man by the gate. He’s gone over the man’s parting words, before he’d turned and nonchalantly walked away, a thousand times. Hux still can’t determine if it was a simple offer, a warning, or a threat. Had the man known that Hux was scoping out the property, or was he simply hoping to recruit a new cult member? Was he trying to threaten him, or was he simply being friendly?

Hux can’t tell. He doesn’t know.

He hates not knowing.

All he knows is that he’s ready to go back to the safety of Phasma’s house, fully aware that he has to come back to the gate again with more purpose, soon enough. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to manage that -- though, he has just been invited.

Before he realizes it, he’s finished the sandwich. He doesn’t feel any less hungry, but he doesn’t feel sick from eating, so he counts it as a win. His stomach feels empty with crawling dread, and his heart feels like it hasn’t stopped jackrabbiting in his chest, loud and obnoxious.

He wasn’t built for this, Hux thinks. He wasn’t built for mysteries, for detective work, for snooping around places where pretty much everyone carries a gun. He didn’t see one on the man by the gate, but Hux knows he must have been carrying. He isn’t dumb enough to think otherwise.

Eventually, his body and brain settle into a nice holding pattern of stillness. He takes a long slug of water and lets the jeep trundle back down the mountain and back to the main road. He could head back, he thinks, back to Simone’s promise of a warm dinner and the comfort of Phasma’s guest bedroom.

But he can’t. Not yet.

He turns the car with a glance to the GPS and makes his way down another road, attempting to approach the compound from a different direction. He wants to get an idea of how big it is, over how much land it truly stretches.

Turns out, it’s quite a lot.

Hux drives for hours. Up and back dirt roads, through fields with faint tire tracks, even over a stream. He traces a spiderweb of roads around the the First Order’s compound, at least in the valley, mapping a part of its perimeter. Some spokes of the web are shorter, the compound reaching out and encroaching upon valley roads. Others -- others, Hux has to twist and turn into, going down roads until he truly wonders if they are even roads at all, before he comes face to face with yet another fence.

He can’t make it into much of the mountainous region of the compound. There are no roads there to carry him along. Just dead ends and wishful thinking. He has no idea how large it truly is -- but he can assume it is truly expansive.

Last night, he’d looked up the area on Google Maps, but the endeavor was largely useless. All it showed him was forest and a few stray buildings -- nothing concrete and certainly no defined borders. A glance at Wisdom itself shows Hux that the satellite images in the area haven’t been updated in about ten years -- there are buildings and roads missing in the town, so god knows how much of the compound has changed.

He tries not to get too close, just in case someone is watching him. If he can see the fence in the distance, that’s good enough. He doesn’t want to look too suspicious. One or two more encounters with the boundaries of the compound are to be expected if he’s simply tooling around the mountain, looking for birds. After all, the compound is in the most desirable part of the mountains -- the fertile valley.

He does a bit more bird watching, half because it’s a good cover, and half because it puts him at ease.

The rest of the day is quiet, though.

As time slips and winds slowly from afternoon to evening, Hux calls it a day. The sun is beginning to duck behind the mountains and he knows that he doesn’t want to be here at night, when he doesn’t have the advantage of light.

The drive back to Wisdom gives him the opportunity to think, to mull over his experiences. It’s not much to go on, but at least it’s something. At least he now feels like he won’t be walking into the compound totally blind with only someone else’s research to go on. He knows that it’s big, that their security is attentive and connected, that they must have the resources to maintain some sort of surveillance system. He knows now that this is no ordinary cult, no redneck zealot encampment to roll his eyes at. No -- the First Order is well-funded, well-organized, and likely well-connected. And sizable.

He could be wrong, sure -- but it’s sure a lot of effort for them to go through if they had dwindling funds and only a handful of members.

Hux can only hope that they were serious about the offer of knocking, because that’s exactly what he plans on doing.

\--

On his way back to town, Hux stops in at the sheriff’s department.

Hux knows, before he even goes in, that it is a waste of his time, but it’s the gesture that matters. If he doesn’t check in with them, he knows that he will regret it when the option is no longer available to him. He knows that law enforcement will have a different view of the First Order than the general populus, likely less influenced by rumor and outrage. At least, he can only hope.

The best option would be to spend a month or so getting to know the townspeople, giving himself the chance to ask the right questions, to get a feel for how they feel about the cult. Any rumors would be helpful, however outrageous. But he just doesn’t have that kind of time. He settles with what Simone tells him, knowing that she has already filtered out some of the crazy. It’s a good deal, especially given the time constraints. The longer he waits, the more days that go by, Phasma’s chance of being found dwindles. He’s not about to add to that, just to immerse himself in the rumor mill.

When he walks into the sheriff’s department, the bell above the door jingles cheerfully. The small building, mostly open-layout, smells like coffee and decades-old cigarette smoke. It’s not unpleasant, but it also doesn’t invite lingering.

Hux is aware that he is an outsider in this town -- it becomes even more apparent when every eye in the room turns on him the second the door closes behind him. No one looks away. He swallows, hearing the audible click of his throat in the silent space.

“May I help you?” the receptionist greets him after a beat: a young woman in her mid-twenties with a mile-wide smile and a pen in her hair. Friendly, open. At least that makes this easier. He had expected immediate hostility toward an outsider.

“Hello,” Hux says, stepping forward to the desk. “I’m actually --” he pauses for a moment, channeling the air of distraction and vacuity that he thinks might help him. “Well, I’m looking for someone. She works here, but I can’t get ahold of her.”

“Oh,” the receptionist says, her matte red lips momentarily a perfect circle. “Oh, honey. Are you looking for Gwen?”

Hux nods. He aims to look distraught. He know he’s hit the mark when the receptionist practically coos at him, her face contorting in sadness.

“She’s currently a missing person. There’s an ongoing investigation going on. I assure you, we miss her too -- she was so sweet and nice.” Hux stops a snort: _sweet and nice_ aren’t descriptors he’d use for Phasma, but then again, everyone has a work personality. Perhaps she put on a cheery, amiable face at work and saved her sarcasm and bitter intelligence for her communications with Hux.

“Is there any progress on the investigation itself?” Hux asks, hopeful for at least something, but also largely expecting nothing. He also has to ask.

“Not much.” The receptionist makes a face. A subtle one, but a face nonetheless. “I’m sorry, I can’t really share many details with the public. We’re currently still investigating.” She looks sincere, now. Hux appreciates the effort, but is growing tired of tracking down dead-ends just because he should. Damn the scientific method, damn keeping up appearances, damn exploring every avenue -- he just wants Phasma back.

“I promise, we want her back as much as you do,” the receptionist reassures him. She had a lip piercing at one time -- Hux can see it faintly when she smiles. Not much to do in small towns, he thinks.

Hux thinks it’s unlikely that they want Phasma back as much as he does, but there’s little point in trying to correct her about it. He’d just look like an ass, and he wouldn’t engender any sort of compassion. Which, should he _also_ get stuck in the cult when he does make his way there, might be something that he needs. He can very well assure himself that he won’t become brainwashed like most of their mindless recruits might, but if they do try to hold him against his will, he doesn’t have many resources at his disposal. If they try to hurt him -- well, then he’ll just be shit out of luck. All he can do on that front is try to avoid any scenarios that involve corporal punishment as a means of indoctrination and keep up a good, zealous face for the crowds. He’s good enough at acting to do that, he thinks.

“May I ask you a question about the investigation?”

The receptionist nods. “Of course. I may not be able to answer it fully, though.” That’s about all Hux can ask for.

“Is the First Order at all under investigation? She was looking into them for the recent disappearances, as you know, and since she started doing so, she was receiving many unwanted phone calls. She even had someone come by her house in the middle of the night, harassing her.”

The receptionist frowns. “She _what_?" She mutters something under her breath that sounds distinctly like ' _oh my freaking god'._  "Yes, we’re looking into them -- but she never mentioned anyone coming to her _house_!”

God, Phasma. Hux tries to bite down on the bitter disappointment that swims in his chest. He can completely see Phasma not mentioning it out of a strong-willed determination to handle her own problems, but the sheer fact that she didn’t is idiotic. Absolutely so. This is exactly the sort of thing the sheriff’s department needs to know. So, Hux tells them all he can.

It’s reassuring that they are still looking into the First Order, but frustrating that they’re caught up in all sorts of red tape. Apparently, the cult has a few very accomplished and vicious lawyers at their disposal, though Hux isn’t sure how they got their hands on them. Regardless, it’s slowing down the whole process and making it a bit like slogging through an unforgiving swamp for no reward whatsoever. If Hux had more time, he probably could scrounge up the connections to combat the lawyers, but time isn’t a luxury he can afford right now.

“That’s about all I can tell you,” the receptionist says, looking regretful. “If you’d like, I can take down your number and let you know if we hear anything else.”

They already have it, but Hux gives it to her again. He wants to be absolutely certain they let him know the moment they find anything. Or, if he is gone, Simone. While he’s in the cult, he’ll be leaving his phone charged and with her, just in case anyone calls. It wouldn’t do to miss out on any information, not that it will help Hux once he is inside.

“Thank you so much,” Hux says. The visit wasn’t exactly helpful, but it wasn’t entirely useless, either. Now the sheriff’s department has more information about Phasma’s case, and Hux knows a bit more about the cult.

It’s helpful to know that the First Order is actively fighting the investigation at every step, trying to tie up local law enforcement in so much red tape that it would likely just be easier for them to drop the whole thing entirely. The more they act like petulant, stubborn toddlers, the more Hux suspects them. There’s no point in getting these sorts of resources together if they’re _not_ trying to hide something, after all.

After he leaves the sheriff’s department, Hux stops by the general store and picks up some supplies.

He gets his hands on a small compass that he can tuck into his sock, if necessary; a burner phone that he can try and stash; sunscreen; and a bottle of nice whiskey. He eyes so many other things, but eventually decides against them. He can’t be sure he’ll be able to keep anything once inside the gates, even though there are so many items he’d feel more comfortable bringing with him. A knife, for example, would be prudent for self defense, but ultimately a waste of money. It might also raise suspicion. He eventually decides to also buy a couple of blank notebooks. Even though he will obviously not be able to write any observations about the First Order outright in them, he can perhaps use them as a sort of journal. Even knowing they will likely be read, it’s somehow comforting to know that he might be able to document this as something leaning toward a scientific approach.

Everything is to be brought with him, but the whiskey is for tonight.

This, trying to infiltrate a clearly dangerous cult in search of a missing person, is perhaps the most idiotic and insane thing he’s ever done.

He knows that he’ll need the liquid courage to make it through the night.


	3. Chapter 3

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Of course I am,” Hux says, cramming a useless tee-shirt into a beat-up backpack Simone had given him. There’s little point in packing anything he cares about, as he is relatively certain it’ll just be taken away. It’s the image that’s important, though. Hux has to walk in with some personal belongings, just so that he can act surprised when he is asked to renounce them. That’s what cults do, right?

He just hopes he can have a little time before doing so, that he might have the ability to pocket both the compass and the burner phone. Both of those will be necessary if he has to make a hasty escape.

“I truly appreciate you doing this,” Simone says, laying a warm hand on his shoulder. Hux isn’t much one for physical contact, but he appreciates the gesture. There’s something so upfront and no-nonsense about Simone that he appreciates. She is a firecracker -- fiercely intelligent, strong willed, and without a lick of apology for it.

Hux nods his acknowledgement. It’s not like they have many other options. “It’s the least I can do.” The least he could have done was visit Phasma, spend time here and maybe prevent this whole mess from happening -- but it’s not like he can go back and change the past. What’s done is done. And now, this is what he can do to help. There aren’t any other options -- it’s just that simple.

“Breakfast?” Simone offers, when Hux has finished packing his meager bag.

Hux wrinkles his nose. The thought of eating only makes his empty stomach twist unpleasantly. Despite  knowing how unhelpful it is, he is nervous. He can’t bite the feeling back, can’t push it under the rug. It helps nothing, and yet it is still there. Lingering and writhing in his gut. “Coffee,” he acquiesces. He could use the caffeine and somehow it always settles his stomach.

“I don’t suppose I need to tell you to be careful,” Simone says. The steam from her own coffee cup snakes toward the rustic, vaulted ceiling of Phasma’s living room. It’s open in here, wide and yet somehow cozy. It feels very much like a home.

“I’m aware that I’m taking my life in my own hands,” Hux says.

“It’s all conjecture. We don’t know for a fact that they’ve harmed anyone. All of the missing persons could still be residing inside their grounds.” Simone’s tone is almost sympathetic. Hux hates it. This is dangerous. The cult is dangerous. There’s no use pretending otherwise.

“So, you’re just crossing your fingers that they’re very good at brainwashing, then?”

“I prefer the thought, yes,” Simone says, and Hux winces. God. Of course she does. The other option is that Phasma is dead. Or, perhaps, worse.

Hux can only nod and murmur a _right._ He also hopes that the First Order is exceptionally good at brainwashing.

The coffee is settling, though the pit in his stomach grows and gnaws at his ribs. A black hole. There’s no point in waiting around the house -- he is just delaying the inevitable.

Hux thumbs a brochure, worrying the edge of it with his thumb until it wears. He folds it in half, worries at it some more, and then tucks it into his back pocket. At this point, he thinks that he’s memorized the thing. That’s probably for the best.

Simone tops up his mug. The roast is bitter and dark and tastes of dirt. “Tell me why you want to join,” she prompts.

“I lost my job,” Hux parrots. “I don’t know what my purpose is, and I want one. I want to feel at peace, as a greater part of a whole.” They’ve gone over this before.

“Sound more depressed about your job.”

“I _am_ depressed about my job.”

“Well, sound like it, then.”

It’s good advice. But Hux has never been one for expressing any of his emotions outright. Emotions are messy and cruel. They are far easier to deal with if he puts them each into a little box and then looks the other way. He’s lucky that he has the ability to mostly ignore them, to not let them affect his life. He’s not sure if that’s genetic predisposition, or if it was a learned experience from his parents -- or both. Either way, it’s always been to his advantage. And he has little time for people who cannot do the same.

It’s not to his advantage now, though.

“I’m sure I’ll muster up the feeling when it’s necessary,” Hux promises.It’s hard putting on the act now, in front of an audience of one. It would somehow feel humiliating, trying to wrangle emotions out of himself in front of a woman as composed as Simone. Her daughter is missing and she is _still_ a picture of sturdy dignity and poise. It’s admirable.

“I have no doubt,” Simone says, tone softening a little. “Forgive me for pressing, Armitage. I just want to make sure you are as prepared as possible.”

“I’m as prepared as I can be,” Hux assures her.

“I’m the one who got you into this,” she says. “If you go missing -- if anything happens to you...well, I’ll only have myself to blame. The least I can do is make sure that you stay as safe as possible.”

“I wouldn’t blame you, Simone. Please know that. If anything happens to me, it’s all the First Order,” Hux says, firmly. “And if I don’t come back in a month,” -- a month is easy enough to keep track of in the middle of the woods. It’s a full moon tonight, so he’ll be able to tell, barely without trying, when a month has passed -- “you need to contact the authorities. Authorities higher up than the town’s sheriff’s department, anyway.”

“Is a month going to be enough time?”

“From what we know the group should be relatively small, even though they occupy a large amount of land. It shouldn’t take more than a month to determine whether or not Phasma is there.” Most cults are small in number -- it shouldn’t take that long to scope out. “But, again, if I’m in there longer than a month, you call someone worthwhile.”

Simone nods, but looks concerned. They both know the sheriff’s department is incompetent. They’re trying, but they’re still useless. If they were better, if they had more power, Hux wouldn’t have to do what he’s doing.

“I wish we knew more about how they operate,” Simone says. “I don’t like putting you in there without   more reliable research.”

“You’ve done all the research you can. That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

With that, Hux downs the rest of his coffee and gathers his things.

\--

The drive is silent.

Simone eventually pulls to a stop a couple miles back from the gate. Hux doesn’t want to be seen with her, and he certainly isn’t about to drive the jeep into the mountains and simply leave it there for Simone to deal with later. He also doesn’t want the First Order to somehow impound it and for Simone to incur the subsequent and horrendous fees for a lost rental car. On top of all she has to deal with, that would just be torture.

“Be safe,” Simone says, squeezing his shoulder with a warm hand. “And be smart.”

Hux snorts. “That won’t be difficult.” He graduated at the top of his class at Yale and worked for years on top secret projects for the NIH, which were covertly backed by the Department of Defense. He’s not worried about being _smart_. Especially when he’s dealing with members of a backwoods cult. He’d be better doing the opposite, trying to fit in with those yokels.

Simone settles him with a look. “Armitage.”

“Yes, yes.” For a brief moment, he feels as if he is conversing with his own mother. Overprotective and needlessly chiding. “I also won’t throw my intelligence in their faces. I’ll play along and follow their lead. Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She passes him a waterbottle. “Now, you better start walking.”

Hux takes the water and the backpack, and slides his burner phone into his pocket. He clambers out of the car and shuts it behind him, feeling suddenly exposed and open in the wide woods. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

She nods. “Take care of yourself.”

Simone turns the car around. Hux watches as she drives down the road, dirt kicking up behind her wheels into a cloud of dust. When the light of the sun hits the dust, it practically glows. It looks far too ethereal and bright for the weight that Hux feels in his chest.

He wants, for a desperate moment, to go back home. To say fuck it and walk away, to let the professionals deal with this problem. They could find Phasma, he thinks. The more rational part of his brain, however, quickly dispels of that thought. They could find her, sure -- but they could find her in three months, dead, in the middle of the forest. If she is still alive, Hux has to help her. He has to do what he can.

So, he starts walking. Simone drove most of the steep part of the way -- now, all Hux needs to do is follow the dirt road until it turns to gravel, until it spits him out at the unfriendly gate.

The woods are quiet around him as he walks. The only noise are distant birds and the sound of his own footsteps. He didn’t bring the binoculars this time. He isn’t trying to fool anyone.

He knows that his little recon mission might be his own downfall, that the First Order might recognize him, might wonder why he was snooping. But Hux is smart. They’ll _know_ he’s smart. He can’t hide his education or his intelligence, so he can at least use them to his favor. He can plead guilt, can apologize for the underhandedness.

Hux’s story is that he heard about the cult on an impromptu trip to the west. He’d been fired from his job (it’s easiest to stick to the truth) and had gone on a walkabout, looking for himself, for purpose. He found one of the pamphlets at a hostel he had stayed in, and had been intrigued. Now, he’s not one for religious groups, but there’s something about the First Order that appeals to him, see? Instant-like. He wanted to know more, so he dug up more information. And then he found himself in Wisdom, before he even realized it. He figured that should be some sort of _sign_ , right? So he decided to visit. But before he actually visited, because he’s smart, he wanted to scope out the place a little, first. Because he’s smart.

That is, if they even ask.

There’s a chance they’ll not even care about his story at all. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

The walk calms him down, a little. By the time he’s at the gate, he feels loose and prepared. He feels _ready._

The gate seems taller, more imposing up close. He hadn’t dared too close to either the gate or the wall on his first journey up to the compound, so he hadn’t been able to thoroughly appreciate just how unfriendly the gate looked. Now -- well, now he can. The wood of it is stained and treated, but old and weatherworn. The metal parts of it are rusted and tarnished, like the thing has been here for years, undisturbed. It probably has. Hux doesn’t know how long the First Order has been up and running, but all evidence points to: _a while._

There’s only so long that Hux can admire the gate before he has to push his fear and apprehension back inside his ribcage, inside a tidy little box.

He knocks.

There is no doorbell, no knocker. The man told him to knock, so that is what he does: knuckles on weathered wood. The sound is so quiet in the forest, muffled by the greatness the gate takes up in space. For a moment, Hux considers knocking again, louder and harder -- but before he can even truly ponder the idea, the gate begins to creak open.

The sound of it is jarring in the midst of the forest.

“Knew you’d be back,” says the man from the previous day, the moment he comes into view when the gate opens. Today he is wearing cargo pants and a denim shirt. He has the same work boots on as yesterday. He still looks as generic as possible. If it weren’t for his voice, drawled and low, and burnt into Hux with apprehension, Hux doesn’t think he’d remember him at all. Maybe that’s the point.

“Did you,” Hux says. It’s not really a question. He tries to bite back on the fear that he’s been caught out already, so soon.

“You’ve got this air of curiosity, see,” the man says, ushering Hux behind the gate. Hux goes. That is why he is here, he reminds himself, to actually get behind the gate. When the lock of it _snick_ s shut behind him, the reality of the situation hits him: he is _behind the gate_. He is in the First Order’s compound. And he is completely out of his depth.

“That’s a good thing,” the man says, before Hux can say that he’s not _that_ curious. “An open mind is a willing mind. No one turns up here by accident. Curiosity is something to be hopeful for, proud of. It’s to be _encouraged_.” The man’s words fade into a tone that Hux recognizes from his interactions with the truly devout: belief. Belief is what is clouding his words, what is making him sound way too fervent about Hux’s reasons for being here.

But Hux doesn’t correct him. He just nods.

“Get in,” the man says, nodding at a pickup truck parked  near the gate.

“What?”

“Unless you want to walk all the way into town, you’re gonna want a ride.”

For the first time, Hux truly takes a look around himself. The gate is behind him, tall and steady. In front of him, to the sides -- is nothing. Nothing but more forest and a dirt path winding through the trees until it disappears. There’s nothing here. It’s not really what he expected, but he’s not terribly surprised, either. It makes sense that the compound would be a little ways back from the gate.

Hux climbs into the car and puts his bag on his lap. He tries not to clutch the bag too tightly in his arms.

“I’m Shepherd Augustus,” the man says. “What’s your name?”

“Um. It’s Armitage,” Hux says, before he can think any better of it. He briefly berates himself for not choosing a fake name, but there are merits to using his real name, too. It wouldn’t be too hard to get his last name -- and if they ask, Hux can only tell them the truth. There’s little point in lying. If they look him up, for instance, he’ll be right there smiling back at them on his LinkedIn profile page.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Seeker Armitage. I am honored to be able to bring you in.”

Hux swallows. He feels very much like he is on his way to his execution, and is shocked that he is somehow still going willingly.

\--

The woods are dark and dense. They go up, until Hux’s ears pop with the pressure of the altitude, and then they travel back down. Into the valley. It’s a long, rough drive, over rough roads with steep drops down the side.. It certainly would have been a long walk.

Eventually, the truck pulls to a stop, just outside the line of the woods. Hux takes a breath and allows himself a moment to collect himself, to look out the window at his fate. _Shepherd Augustus_ lets him. It’s kind, Hux thinks -- but perhaps he has been through this many times before. Hux can’t have been the only one who needed a minute before facing his new reality.

Outside the truck, a town lays in front of them.

Closest to the treeline are rows and rows of long, wooden buildings. They  are rustic and weather-worn, and it looks as if the elements have taken their toll on them. It takes Hux a moment to recognize them for what they likely are: barracks. He’s spent enough time researching military history as a pastime to apply the basic structure, the layout, to the buildings before him.

Scattered around are other wooden buildings, most of a better construction than the barracks -- but not by much. It’s all very rustic, very primitive.

There’s no one outside, not that Hux can see.

“This is town,” Shepherd Augustus tells him. And it is. There’s enough buildings around to indicate a population much larger than Hux ever considered. It’s quaint, but even from this small portion Hux can see, it’s already far larger than the entirety of Wisdom. “Welcome to _Harmony, Level 1_.”

Up on a hill, Hux can see a large building. It towers in the distance, but even from far away Hux can tell that it’s not made of wood. Stone. Granite, perhaps. Whatever it is, it dwarfs everything in the small area Augustus deemed _Level 1,_ both in size and in aesthetic value. Beauty, even. It has to be a temple, he thinks. Some sort of worship center.

“Yes,” Hux says, gripping his bag a little tighter as he looks out on _Harmony, Level 1._ “Thank you.”

\--

The first building Hux is ushered into is the largest in what looks to be the main square area of the town. The wood of the building, instead of being left unfinished, has been painted white. There are flowers meticulously planted out front. The treatment makes the building stand out -- it must be something like the welcome center, he thinks. When Hux walks through the door, he notices that there is no receptionist’s desk, though. Just open tables and comfortable chairs where a number of people are sitting and reading -- about nine, maybe.

“This is Seeker Armitage,” Shepherd Augustus, says, to the room at large. Eight people continue reading, eyes fixed on their books -- either absorbed in their reading, or perhaps unwelcome to look up. Hux doesn’t know which.

A woman looks up and rises from her seat, “Welcome, Seeker Armitage.”

It takes Hux a moment to notice what’s different about her, about all of the people in this room: while Augustus and he are wearing normal run-of-the-mill clothes, everyone inside is wearing garments made out of either white or beige linen. The clothes are loose, but not disruptively so, and the fabric looks comfortable, opposed to scratchy. Still, Hux immediately wonders if the clothes are mandatory, or if he can continue wearing his regular clothing. He can’t imagine himself wearing anything of the sort.

“Hello,” Hux says, hoping his tone is fine. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Curiosity brought you here today, is that right?” she asks. She seems friendly, buoyant. Open. Hux supposes that’s necessary, if she’s part of the welcoming committee. Or onboarding -- whatever they think of it as.

“It did.” He doesn’t know how she knows. Maybe it’s just a line they use on everyone, maybe it’s the title that Augustus gave him.

“Curiosity is encouraged. An open mind is a willing mind,” she says, an echo of what Augustus said earlier.

Hux nods.

“I am Shepherd Bettany.” _Shepherd_ \-- so it’s not a name, but a title, Hux realizes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m grateful that you found us, and that we found you.” Hux takes a moment to truly look at Bettany, now that he has the chance. She is a beautiful woman, tall and fit, with rich, dark skin that looks smooth, even for her age. She must be in her fifties, Hux thinks, but she lacks most wrinkles, other than distinguished smile lines starting around her eyes. It’s interesting, Hux thinks, to find her in a position of relative power. Hux had assumed, like with many other cults he had looked into, the leaders would largely be composed of white men.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

Her smile is warm. Genuine.

“Please, come with me.” She begins walking toward the back of the building, where he can see a red linen curtain separating a room from the rest of the space. Clearly, she expects him to follow.

When Hux glances at Augustus, wondering if he is now being passed off now to Shepherd Bettany, the man raises his hand. “This is where I take my leave. The welcoming process is for you and you alone. I look forward to seeing you in the days to come.”

When Hux follows Bettany to the back of the building, past the people reading and then past the curtain. There, he finds a small, intimate space with two chairs. It looks deceptively comfortable: there is no intimidation factor here. Light filters in through stained glass windows, illuminating the space in visual warmth. The glass of the windows seems to only be in shades of red, pink, beige, and grey, in geometric patterns. Mathematical, even.

It’s a bit shocking to see no religious symbolism here. The brochures hadn’t mentioned anything about Christianity, but Hux knows from research that most cults at least base their beliefs on that ground. It’s likely easier to build upon a preexisting foundation than to start from the ground up, in terms of recruiting masses to your beliefs.

“Please, sit,” Bettany tells him, after handing him a bottle of water. Sealed, he notes. She folds herself elegantly into the chair opposite the one he chooses. She pulls out a paper pad to place on her knee. To take notes, he can only assume.

“The Force will gladly open its arms to you, Seeker Armitage, if you are so willing. This Welcoming Session is simply a matter of protocol.” She begins writing at the top of the paper. “So that we can grow to know you, and so you can better know us. We need familiarity so to help each other in our mutual spiritual pursuits.”

For a moment, Hux feels off-balance. He didn’t expect anything so formal as this, so well-established. He expected at least some sort of discord, and generally some hostility toward a stranger. It’s not completely dizzying, but the whole thing isn’t exactly as he expected.

“So, what truly brought you here? Was there a catalyst?” For a moment, Hux feels as if he is in a therapy session. It’s something about her tone. A professional friendliness, perhaps.

“I was fired.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s always disappointing to hear that we are not valued in the places we choose to spend our time. Here in the First Order, we value everyone’s time and ability. We strive to make everyone feel welcome, accomplished, and happy.”

“Those are lofty goals.” He probably should sound less skeptical, but the words are out before he can stop them. He at least can blame them on feeling slighted by his recent experience with being fired.

Bettany chuckles. “They are. But you’ll find that people here are quite happy. We let the Force help guide us in finding a purpose, in finding a reason for life. The Force chooses a career path for every individual here, something suited to them and their interests. After all, if work isn’t fulfilling, then no one will want to do it. If one finds pleasure in the job they do, then working is something one can use to find balance and fulfillment within themselves.”

The philosophy behind that isn’t bad, per say, but Hux knows it to be an unattainable goal. There are are always jobs people don’t want, just as there are always people who don’t wish to work. It’s still interesting, though -- she makes it sound like everyone has a job and is happy to do it. Perhaps if they don’t do it, they’re carted away. There’s always a catch.

“Interesting,” Hux says. Both because it is, and because he doesn’t want to seem unenthusiastic. “So, everyone here is assigned a job?”

“The Force chooses a job for them, after they visit the Enlightenment Center.”

“And if it’s not a job well-suited to them and their skillsets?” Hux asks.

“The Force helps us find purpose. It will always dictate a job that we find fulfilling, so that we can find balance in our lives.” Hux sighs -- it’s a lot of repetition and not a lot of answers. For all it sounds like, jobs are practically drawn out of a hat.

“What _is_ the Force?” Hux asks, mostly because he feels like he should.

“The Force is the basis for all life in the Universe. It is One, it is Many. It is the Creator. It is all around us. The Force touches all aspects of life, providing guidance and balance throughout all realities. It is the cohesive force that ties everything together.” Bettany smiles. “It is with you at all times. It is you. It is me. It is the thread that connects all life, all eventualities.”

“So,” Hux says, “there is no God?”

“The Force is God. The Force is Everything.”

Bettany gives him three books of varying sizes and a stack of pamphlets for additional reading. The books are professionally bound and brand new. _For you_ , she tells him, encouraging him to make notes in the margins, to underline -- whatever helps him. It’s all information for him, intended to sell the idea of the Force.

“I don’t expect you to believe,” Bettany tells him, after asking for more of Hux’s personal story. He told her about getting fired, his lack of friends and family, and his current lack of direction. She promises that the First Order can help him find his way. They take people who need a viable North and provide that for them. He’s not the only one who has come here, lost.

“You are a man of science. Science _is_ your faith.” She’s not wrong, so he nods carefully. Science is about the closest thing to a faith he has ever had. “All we ask is that you open your mind, heart, and soul to the possibility of there being something _more_. Something greater. You came here because you were lost, because you were curious and alone. Read the books,” she says. “Read, and be open. And then you will see.”

“Of course,” Hux says. Because he is here to _find himself_ , right? At least in their eyes. He’s someone on a spiritual journey, someone who is looking for _more_.

“Your aura is open to the Force,” Bettany tells him. “That’s good. That’s a wonderful first step.”

Hux nods. He’s sure if he were to say anything, his tone would give away both his skepticism and his disgust. So, he plays it safe.

“Would you like a tour?” Bettany asks him.

As Hux assumed there was a possibility that he would be kept in a small, dark room for days, he immediately agrees.

“I’ll have to ask you to change, first, if that’s alright?” Bettany says, rising out of her chair and moving to a closet at the side of the room. She picks out a pair of trousers and a shirt after a moment’s deliberation over size. She hands him the clothes, as well as undergarments and a simple pair of shoes. “We try not to bring too much of the Outside into any of the levels of Harmony, though we know it can sometimes be inevitable. If you are truly against changing, no one will balk, nor will we force you into clothes you do not want to wear, but it will likely make you uncomfortable as an outsider.”

It’s true. Amongst dozens of people all dressed the same, Hux can’t imagine standing alone in jeans and a plaid shirt. He isn’t one for overly loud colors, and his current clothes are quite muted, but next to Bettany in her beige tones, he feels garish. Like a spectacle. “I’ll change,” he agrees.

\--

The clothes are shockingly comfortable, once Hux slides them on.

The trousers are held with a drawstring and the shirt is a simple button down, on which he has rolled up the too-baggy sleeves. They are both a bright-white linen, brighter than many of the others he saw. The underwear, luckily, are simply normal cotton boxer briefs, and the shoes are comfortable slip-ons. No socks, he notes. Once clad in what the First Order deems as appropriate, Hux cannot deny that he is largely quite comfortable.

Bettany had let him duck into a bathroom, which was a nice reprieve from the strange environment and unknown people around him. He takes a moment, once changed, to splash some cold water on his face and take a few deep breaths over the sink.

When he catches his reflection, he doesn’t know what to think. The clothes don’t look bad on him, but they’re nothing like what he’s ever worn before. The white cloth somehow makes his red hair stand out even more, in the same way it pulls attention to the freckles on his skin. He looks -- well, he looks a bit like he belongs here. With every piece of modernity stripped away, he feels like it, too.

He shoves his clothes into his backpack, takes his stack of reading material, and meets Bettany by the door to the building, like she asked him to. She’s already there, waiting for him. The notebook is gone and her hands are free once more.

“First,” Bettany says, “Would you like to drop off your belongings?”

It’s not really a question, Hux knows. He figures that the second he sets them down, they’ll be taken away. But he doesn’t have much of a choice. “Alright.”

She guides him to one of the long, wooden houses -- the ones he originally (and correctly) assumed were barracks. Hux steps inside with trepidation, unsure exactly what to expect to find in the place where he is going to be spending his time. He finds, surprisingly, a bright and open space. In the middle of it all are tables, many of them, made out of heavy, rustic wood. When Hux looks around, scanning the rest of the space, he notices the many bunk beds built into the walls. Each has its own nook, its own space -- but there can only be so much privacy, so much individuality in a room like this. With about twenty beds for just this room alone, Hux already feels a bit claustrophobic. He cannot help but be extra thankful for the bright light of the room that streams down from both skylights and from daylight bulbs. It makes the room breathable.

After giving him a moment to take it all in, Bettany speaks. “You can choose any bed. Other than the ones with sheets and pillows. Those are already taken.” All of the others, Hux notices, are simply mattresses. He walks, surveying the space for a moment, before choosing one of the bunks in the back corner of the room. A top one, to give himself a bit of perceived privacy in the room. There’s one bunk between him and the next occupied one -- someone who also favored being away from the door, he assumes.

He puts his bag on his bed, expecting to never see it again.

Not many bunks are taken, he notices. There’s maybe about seven or eight others in the room that have sheets and pillows.

Hux says as much to Bettany and she smiles. “We just had our Ascending Ceremony. Most of the Seekers have now risen to Disciples. They have either been welcomed into homes, or have been given their own residences.”

“They don’t live here?” Hux asks, gesturing to the meager accommodations. This -- well, this is what he was expecting, if he was going to be honest.

“No,” Bettany laughs. “That would be very uncomfortable for living for an extended period of time, don’t you think? No, this place is solely for the Seekers. A refuge from the rest of Harmony, if you will.” She gestures at a few tables that sit in the middle of the room, “this place is for your studies of our doctrines. While you are more than welcome to participate in daily life here, or even to apply yourself to one of the work teams, you are encouraged to spend the majority of your time studying.”

“There are only a few books.” Hux still has them in his hand. He knows that he reads fast. If he wants to, he could finish it all in a couple of days. He can’t imagine it’ll be much _studying_.

“That’s just the beginning,” Bettany smiles. “There’s a whole library waiting for you.”

\--

The tour of the compound -- at least _Level 1_ , Hux assumes -- is a surprisingly pleasant one.

Hux has to give Montana some credit: it is absolutely beautiful. He couldn’t say much for Wisdom itself, feeling a bit like it was washed up and tainted with the loss of Phasma, but the countryside is stunning. Here, tucked in the lush valley, Harmony Level 1 is breathtaking.

First, Bettany leads him to the fields, where they are growing numerous crops in abundance. Hux recognizes grains, corn, potatoes, and soy -- not to mention various others he has no familiarity with. Abutting the fields are an array of greenhouses -- inside, Hux can assume to find some more delicate crops. In the distance, Bettany points his eyes to rolling orchards.

For a long while, Hux is silent, simply taking it all in. The grounds here are beautiful -- but also shockingly expansive. The sheer mass of agriculture going on suggests an absolutely _huge_ population, like nothing he ever imagined. It’s enough, he thinks, to feed hundreds of people. Maybe even close to a thousand.

Soon, he begins to see them. The people are everywhere, when he truly begins looking for them. Every person he sees is wearing clothes just like his own, in either white or beige. Almost every single person is either working, or taking a break nearby some task they just completed. There are a few people, in bright white clothes like him, scattered under trees or on benches, with books. Studying, he assumes.

Everyone seems happy, smiling and occasionally chatting pleasantly with each other. Friendly.

It looks idyllic.

Troublingly so.

Hux cannot help but scan the people for Phasma, but his eyes never catch onto anyone who looks like her.

It’s in looking, though, that he notes the _diversity_. At first, he hadn’t thought much of it, spending most of his time in New York City -- but out in the middle of nowhere, in a cult tucked into a private compound in the woods? He hadn’t expected to find much diversity here, at all. It’s nothing near the amount of diversity that can be found in the city, but it’s surprising enough. It’s not something he can necessarily ask about, so he just tucks the observation away.

“Shepherd Bettany,” a friendly voice sounds from behind them.

Hux and Bettany turn to find a man behind them. He is on the younger side, about Hux’s age. His linen clothing is bright white, just like Hux’s, and it stands out brilliantly on his tanned skin. Like Hux, he has his sleeves rolled up -- likely due to the heat of the day, given that he is far more muscular than Hux himself.

“Seeker Poe, how are you today?” Bettany says, placing a welcoming hand on the man’s shoulder -- a greeting, likely, as it is mirrored by _Seeker Poe_.

“Very well. It’s a lovely day for reading, don’t you think?” Poe smiles at Hux and it is a brilliant thing. All white teeth against tan skin, coupled with shaggy, dark hair. He doesn’t look the type to be in a cult, Hux thinks. He looks far too _normal_.

“It is,” Bettany says. “Seeker Poe, I would like you to meet Seeker Armitage. He just joined us today.”

Poe greets Hux in the same way he did Bettany: a hand on the shoulder. Hux mirrors the gesture, feeling awkward and strange.  He looks to Bettany, for some sort of approval, and she looks pleased. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Poe says. “I’ve been here for a few months,-- ” _months_ , Hux thinks, horrified. _Months?_ They just had an ascending ceremony, and Poe clearly is still a Seeker. “--studying the ways of the Force. If there’s anything you’d like to know, or any beginner’s tips you need, I’m your man. I know it can be kind of overwhelming, coming here.”  

Hux nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” Poe seems friendly, happy. Pretty normal. Just like everyone else.

“I’ll see you around,” Poe says, as he leaves them with a smile.

The greenhouses are next, and then Bettany leads them through a residential area. There are rows of small houses, all modest but well kept up. They look like single family homes -- some even have multiple children playing outside. A few people wave at Bettany, and a couple others come up and greet her in the way that Poe had. He has to mimic the greeting once, for an older white man, but other than that, Hux is saved from any other interactions.

They walk past the Enlightenment Center, which is another large wooden structure, and then Bettany points out the Commons, where she tells him that food is available at all times of the day. “Whenever you are hungry, they will feed you. Physical nourishment is just as important as spiritual nourishment.” It’s strange, Hux thinks. He always thought that planned meal-times were an important structural part of brainwashed cult behavior, but evidently not. “It’s encouraged that you eat with others so that you can integrate into the community, but different paths require nourishment at different times.”

“You must be exhausted,” Bettany says. “I can drop you back off at your building, where you can rest and recuperate. Then, whenever you feel hungry, you can come to the Commons.”

“Alright.” He can’t believe he’s being given free reign to go about as he pleases, but he supposes there’s not that much he can get up to. Just plod through some fields and traipse into people’s houses.

They walk the long way around, so Hux can see the rest of Harmony, Level 1. It’s only as they are beginning to loop back that Bettany points out a large building to him. It’s far away, but relatively large, and built into what looks like a very tall wall. This one is made out of stone, just like the wall behind it. “And that is the Worship Center. If you become sick, that is where you go. They will guide you in prayer and meditation, and the Force will cure your ails.”

Hux wants to ask about the wall, about what’s behind it, but he knows better. He can’t be too interested. So, he just nods. _Worship Center_ , Hux mentally scoffs: if he gets sick, he’ll be shit out of luck -- medication is what would help him, not prayer.

They talk a bit more about Hux and his goals on the way back to the barracks. Bettany tells him that he can always come to her with questions. She is one of the spiritual advisers, ready to help and to serve.

There’s so much to see that he knows he misses some things. After awhile, everything begins to blur together in a mass of _too much information_. There’s so much visual input, not to mention an entirely new culture to absorb: it’s a lot to process after a certain point.

Back in the barracks, Hux is finally alone. The moment the door clicks shut behind him, after he checks to see that the building is devoid of any other inhabitants, he finally, _finally_ breathes a sigh of relief.

The weight of the day sits heavy on his shoulders, oppressive as it clings to his back and presses in on his lungs from above. It’s hard to think, to breathe with all of it. For a moment, Hux cannot believe that he has truly come this far. He takes a deep breath, then another, and finally a third, and finally begins to feel a bit more human.

He makes it over to his bunk, honestly surprised to find it made with sheets and a pillow: made, while he was gone. His backpack hangs on a hook next to the bed. He hadn’t heard Bettany ask anyone to set it up, or even to notify anyone that he was there, but clearly she had. On further inspection, his bag is half empty, which is fine. It’s a surprise he got it back at all. The burner phone and his clothes are gone, but he still has his compass and his sunscreen. They kindly left his notebooks, as well.

Hux surveys his new living space, now that he has the time and privacy.

There’s a small light built into the nook above his bed, which he turns on to give himself a bit more visibility. He has a bedside table with a small cubby underneath: in that, he puts his books and reading material. Underneath the top bunk are a few drawers: when he opens them, he finds more clean clothing and sheets. When he holds up one of the shirts, it’s the correct size for him -- someone must have stocked the drawers at the same time as they made his bed. He’ll probably be responsible for doing that himself in the future, but this must have been something like a welcome-home gesture. He can’t deny that it has some effect: coming back to a made-up bed certainly made him feel a bit more comfortable. More at home.

It’s not night time, and Hux isn’t one for spending time in his bed, but he still finds himself climbing up and laying down on his mattress. He can’t deny that he’s absolutely exhausted.

None of it is entirely absurd or insane or even particularly idiotic, is the thing.

Obviously, it is a small community with its own culture and rules and beliefs, but it is far less bizarre or deranged than Hux had prepared himself for. Sure, it’s still a fanatical cult -- there’s no denying that -- but the organization is surprising. The sanity -- or the appearance of it, anyway. Hux hadn’t readied himself for this.

It’s a pleasant surprise, but it’s still a lot.

It’s going to be a _process_ , slogging through the whole belief system to make himself seem worthy. He can’t help but think back to Poe, the other Seeker that Bettany had introduced him to: Poe has been in the compound for months and is still a Seeker. Hux’s rough estimate that he would give Simone a month before she sent in the reinforcements had been _far_ too hopeful. They both had assumed the First Order was smaller, less organized. If that had been the case, it might not have taken Hux too long to be able to scope out the inside of it, to figure out if Phasma was there or not. But _this_? There’s no way he can navigate the whole of the First Order in a month. Absolutely none. He needs to get a message out to Simone, somehow. Hux can only hope that somehow, despite all odds, they’ll allow him.

\--

Hux opens his eyes. For a brief moment, he can’t recall where he is, what time of day it is, what he’s doing. He can’t even remember falling asleep. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but it’s too long:

“You alright?”

The voice has Hux’s brain jumping into gear, away from panic and confusion, and into normalcy once more. He turns, eyes searching for the source of the voice. The bunk Hux noticed earlier, a couple slots down from his own, is now occupied by a person, and a familiar one at that: Seeker Poe.

It’s a comfort, seeing a known face.

“Yeah,” Hux says. His voice is rough. His mouth, parched. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

The room around them is dimly lit. The skylights let in the violet light of the dusk sky, bathing the room in a gentle glow. The overhead lights have mostly been turned off, likely because people will be heading to sleep at some point soon. A few stray bunk-lights are on, which generally helps to define the borders and edges of things, but likely wouldn’t do much to impede sleep.

Poe smiles and laughs, easy. “Don’t blame you. The first few days are exhausting. I’d count on a lot of naps, if I were you.”

“I’m not really a nap person.”

“I’d still count on a lot of them.” Poe swings himself down from his bunk, ignoring the steps altogether. He looks strong and fit -- despite his floppy curls of hair, he looks military. Something about the stance of him -- loose and relaxed, but contained. Perfectly coiled. Hux’s family was military -- he knows that kind of strength and discipline when he sees it.

Poe runs his hands through his hair a few times, fluffing it, and then steps up to Hux’s bunk. Not too close -- a friendly, cordial distance away. “You want to go grab something to eat at the Commons? It can be kind of intimidating, going in there for the first time.” There’s something about Poe that’s so normal, so confident, that Hux finds it hard to remember that Poe is here because he _believes_ in this nonsense. Poe chose to be here, just like everyone else. He is committed.

The clothes help as a reminder. As Poe shifts, Hux’s eyes fall on his linen shirt and pants -- just like Hux’s. Even in the dim light of the room, it’s easy to see them. The _sameness_ of them, the loose draping of the fabric, reminds Hux that this is a strange place, that these are strange people. He shouldn’t forget that -- it could be hugely detrimental.

Hux knows that he shouldn’t get too close, too attached. But he also needs allies here. He needs more knowledge, as fast as he possibly can acquire it. Poe could be a good avenue for that.

“Besides,” Poe says, “no one likes sitting alone.”

And so Hux goes.


	4. Chapter 4

Hux isn’t prepared for the sheer amount of people he sees in the Commons when Poe holds open the door for him and ushers him in.

The moment Hux steps inside the building -- wood construction, unremarkable on the outside -- he is overwhelmed by the humanity of it. The first thing he thinks of is a university cafeteria -- packed and full of visual stimulus -- but that’s not quite right. Instead of the din of noise he expects with so many people -- two hundred, maybe three -- it’s quiet. Not unnaturally so, as people are still having quiet conversations, but it’s definitely far more subdued than he would ever have imagined a room full of this many people.

The tables are long and made of something that looks like cedar, with benches along the sides. Every person in the room is dressed like them, in varying shades of white and tan linen clothes. There are people of all ages and ethnicities seated together -- some in clear family units, some not.

“Come on,” Poe’s words shake him from his thoughts with a gentle hand on Hux’s shoulder. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Poe guides him toward the back of the room. As they get closer, Hux can see a buffet of food, with more denizens of the First Order working behind the bar. There doesn’t appear to be any difference in their clothing or rank, so Hux assumes this is just one of the jobs that can be assigned.

“Really, everything is shockingly good,” Poe is saying, as he hands Hux a tray. “And you can eat as much as you want.”

“I’m not very hungry,” Hux tells him, eyeing the food with a degree of suspicion. There’s nothing to say that the food isn’t drugged. Not that it matters -- there’s no way he’s going to survive for a month, much less more, by not eating. If there’s something in the food, he’ll just have to resign himself to eating it and hoping for the best.

Poe claps him on the shoulder. “Really, I promise it’s good.” He then leads the way in the line, helping himself to whatever he wants so that Hux can follow.

Hux settles on some seasoned chicken, roasted vegetables, and what looks like honest-to-god real mashed potatoes. Not the powdered kind, like he would have imagined. He thinks he can see the skins still in the mash, and he can certainly identify some added leeks. It all smells -- good, actually. Maybe he’s just exhausted. Poe gets them both fresh ice water and leads them to an open spot at one of the long tables. They don’t sit near anyone else, which Hux is thankful for. He’s not up for any new faces, right now.

“I can introduce you to some of the others tomorrow, but honestly, most of them will just introduce themselves. Everyone here is very friendly,” Poe says, between bites of what looks like pork tenderloin and homemade applesauce.

Hux can’t deny that the food is surprisingly good. Even though he’s not very hungry, he manages to finish his whole plate. Once he’s done, and finished with his glass of water, he feels infinitely more human. Suddenly, he finds that he can focus on his surroundings and fully take everything in.

Poe talks while Hux listens and looks around. About nothing in particular, really, just a pleasant stream of words.

The room is large enough to accommodate such a mass of people as there are, if not even more. There are plenty of empty seats at the tables, which suggest either there _are_ more people in the compound, or the First Order is has their hopes up about the prospect of expanding. The ceilings of the room are tall, with exposed rafters, which helps add a bit of air and light to what could end up being a cramped, closed-in space if packed to the gills. Some of the people around Hux space him a curious glance: with his red hair, Hux is always easy to spot in a crowd as a newcomer -- but no one truly acknowledges him. He’s not sure if it’s out of politeness, or something else. Whatever it is, he’s glad for it. He spots a few people eating alone -- either reading, or simply enjoying their own company. Despite having been told that everyone works, no one looks exhausted or brow-beaten. In fact, everyone does seem truly _happy_ here.

It’s weird.

Not that he expected to find anything that _wasn’t_ weird, waltzing straight into a cult like he had. But he supposes that’s the crux of it, really: the majority of what he’s found so far has been bafflingly normal. He feels like it should be fifteen kinds of crazy in a five pound bag, but instead it’s just a little weird, not absolutely batshit.

“Good, right?” Poe asks him, pausing in his destruction of something that looks a lot like cheesecake.

Hux just nods. It is was good -- he can’t lie. The food being palatable, even if it’s drugged, makes this whole experience far more pleasant.

“Good food is important for nourishing yourself,” Poe says. “A nourished body leads to a nourished soul. Without your body functioning optimally, it’s much harder to find balance.”

Hux must give Poe something of a look -- he can’t help it, he’s exhausted -- because Poe laughs. If the skepticism creeps out into his expressions, well, that’s it, then: he has no control over it. But Poe doesn’t look unhappy or disgruntled or even curious about Hux’s disbelief. “I know, it sounds like a load, right?”

Hux doesn’t necessarily nod, per say -- but Poe takes something in his expression to be the affirmative that it is, so he continues. “That’s what I thought, too, when I first got here.” Poe pushes his tray away from himself and settles his elbows on the table. “I was lost. I’d just come out of the Air Force and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I didn’t have a purpose anymore. I was dealing with a lot of stuff, just kind of reeling and self-destructive. So, I went on a journey to find myself. First, I didn’t realize it, really -- I was just sleeping on people’s couches and in rest-stops and wherever -- but then I started to notice that I was trying to find meaning in the smallest things. You ever do that?”

“Sure,” Hux says, not particularly relating at all.

“But everything I thought I’d found meaning in wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t _true_.” Hux is beginning to wish that Poe would stop talking. It had been nice to have someone who seemed relatively sane around. If Poe keeps it up, Hux won’t be able to keep that illusion around for too much longer. It’ll be hard to forget that Poe is just as trapped up in it all as everyone else. “I kept heading in this direction. Subconsciously pulled toward Harmony. It was only a matter of time before I realized that something was pulling me, that the Force was nudging me in the right direction. Eventually I ended up at the Gate and they let me in. I was reluctant at first, to hear what they had to say. But it all made _sense_. I was programmed by the world and my previous life to not believe, to not accept the truth. But eventually, I began to see it -- and ever since, I’ve been finding balance.”

There’s a part of Hux that wants to scream, that wants to shake Poe and tell him he had been right at the beginning. He wants to tell this poor man that he’s been duped. It’s infuriating, thinking that the First Order took advantage of someone straight out of military service, right when he needed the most help. Hux isn’t typically one for pity, much less _sympathy_ \-- but he feels truly sorry for Poe. He seems like a good guy who stumbled upon the wrong people at the worst time.

But he can’t say any of that. Hux can’t shake the brainwashing out of Poe -- instead, he has to play along.

“I see,” Hux says. “Was it difficult?”

“Was what,” Poe asks. “Opening myself to the truth?”

Hux nods.

“No. No it wasn’t difficult at all.”

\--

After dinner, they retire back to the barracks.

Poe sets himself up at one of the tables in the middle of the room with a large stack of books. He sits amidst a few other people who had already been camped out at the tables by the time Poe and Hux had come back from dinner. A couple people look up from their reading and nod at Hux as he walks back to his bunk -- politely friendly, but not necessarily engaging. Again, Hux appreciates that.

Hux climbs the steps to his bunk and tucks himself into the corner of the quiet nook, feeling a little better now that he is back in his own space. It’s not a room, but it’s got three walls, which at least gives him the illusion of privacy.

The room is largely empty of Seekers -- likely because of the Ascending Ceremony that had just taken place. Hux tries to imagine it full, just like the cafeteria, and the idea is not as unpleasant as it could be. Even with every bunk taken, the space is large enough to accommodate that many people without it feeling too crowded or cramped. It’s astounding, though -- this is not the only barracks. Hux had seen at least three others, which leads him to believe that the First Order’s recruitment rate is staggeringly high.

Hux pulls out the first book that Bettany had given to him, turning it over in his hands. _A Brief Introduction to the Force: Finding Balance and Connection in All Things_. Hux traces his fingers over the embossed words on the cover and stifles a laugh. _Brief_ , he thinks, thumbing through what looks to be nearly five hundred pages. They’ve certainly got a very different definition of _brief_ than the rest of the world.

He assumes, given what he’s heard from people today, that the writing will be largely repetitive and monotonous. But that’s doable. He’s suffered through worse textbooks before, especially in undergrad. To go with the book, he also pulls out a couple of his notebooks and a pen, and sets out to take some notes. First, he starts with a journal entry in the first notebook -- nothing too detailed, of course, just a brief entry about getting to the compound and what he’s seen. He frames it as a personal reference, just some notes to keep himself from getting lost.

He makes a note of Shepherd Augustus, Shepherd Bettany -- and his acquaintance, Seeker Poe. If anything, it _is_ a all a personal reference: he doesn’t want to be forgetting anyone’s names, or their titles. And, when he makes it out, it could be very useful information for the police. He’s sure some of these people are missing persons. If he just gets first names, or even just descriptions, maybe it could help some cold cases. If anything, his findings here about just how many people there are in the compound could at least help start an investigation into tax fraud, as the First Order only lays claim to so many people. Certainly not the number they have housed here, at any rate.

When he finishes with his journal entry, he jumps to the large tome.

The introduction seems like a family tree, more than anything, touting geological records that date back to the 15th or 16th century. It’s -- interesting, to say the least. It keeps Hux largely captivated for a while, as he makes notes about specific families and lineages. It seems like there have been a few main families in charge of the First Order, as well as otherwise vetted and appointed leaders. It’s strange, their obsession with family lines, but Hux supposes they might be mirroring a bit off the success of monarchies. “ _The Force more easily through some than others_ ,” the book tells him, opposite a page with a beautifully rendered family tree.

All of it takes a very long time to slug through.

From what _A Brief Introduction_ suggests, the First Order, as it is named, has been around since before World War II, which -- well, it’s honestly far longer than Hux ever could have given it credit for. Most cults tend to rise and fall to their ruin rather rapidly -- this one seems to have taken its time to become what it is. And, at least from what Hux can see (which is albeit not enough), it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime fast.

Despite the title of the book, Hux finds that there is little discussion (or explanation) of _the Force_ itself in the introduction. It takes reading through a tedious diatribe of its founder’s life. Leader Palpatine, he was called. Hux thinks it’s both a ridiculous name and a horrendous title. It doesn’t do much in inspiring fear in the hearts of followers, but Hux supposes that’s not entirely necessary. No one here seems afraid, and yet they all go about their days as dictated by _the Force_.

It’s a load of garbage. And yet it’s still _working._

Hux gets to the first chapter, titled “ _The Force: What It Is and Why You Should Care.”_ It’s simple and pompous and leading, and Hux closes the book, deciding he is done for the night. He stifles a yawn and stacks his book and journals on the table next to his bed.

Time for bed, maybe. He doesn’t necessarily want to go to sleep in this strange place, but needs must. He is absolutely exhausted. He passes his tongue over his teeth and frowns -- no toothbrush or toothpaste. He doesn’t even have shampoo -- maybe he should have brought some. Regardless, doesn’t have any of that, so there’s no use in lamenting it now. He’ll see what he can do about that, later.

He carefully gets down from his bed and heads over to the bathroom -- which turns out to be a much larger room than he thought: with a row of about five sinks, as well as the same number of toilets and shower stalls. Like summer camp. It’s clean, with rows and rows of perfectly white tiles, and smells strongly of bleach. It’s -- not bad, he thinks. At least for what it is.

He goes through his evening routine as best as he can, which ends with him at the sink, splashing warm water on his face in lieu of truly washing it. When he refocuses his eyes in the mirror, blinking back droplets of water from his eyelashes, Poe is standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Poe says. “But they always forget to give the toiletry kits out. I think it’s purposeful, you know? Like, if you have to ask someone about a toothbrush or soap, maybe you’ll make a connection.”

Poe crosses into the bathroom and moves toward a closet at the side. Hux hadn’t noticed it before. He opens it and Hux can see rows and rows of bathroom supplies -- shampoo, soap, toothbrushes -- anything you could ask for in terms of toiletries. He pulls out a small black bag from a shelf with dozens of similar bags, and tosses it at Hux, who catches it -- barely. “That’s all for you.” Poe grins. “There’s replacements in there for just about anything you need.”

At this point, Hux isn’t sure what to do with this man’s friendliness. With everyone’s friendliness, really, but especially Poe’s. He’s so packed full of smiling kindness and that’s not at all what Hux prepared himself for. “Thanks,” he says, bewildered.

“Anytime, pal. It took me two days to ask about it. By then, I felt groady and annoyed that no one just _told_ me about it.” He pauses for a second, then begins again. “Oh! Under your bed there’s a set of pajamas. They’re not particularly fashionable, but they’re decent enough.” Poe touches the collar of his own shirt, and Hux notices that he’s changed into pajamas at some point or another. They look soft.

Poe meanders back to the doorway to the bathroom and props a shoulder against the frame.  So casual, so _normal_. “Sleep well, Fellow Seeker Hux. May the Force guide you in your dreams.”

And with that Poe departs and Hux is left alone in the bleach-smelling bathroom, reminded once again, that he is amongst the brainwashed masses of a secretive cult.

\--

Morning brings sunlight creeping through the skylights, through the narrow windows Hux hadn’t even noticed over his bunk. The whole room is bright against his eyelids, and so he turns and buries his face in his pillow with a small huff of breath. His pillow smells like laundry detergent, like cedar, like the woods.

The dawning realization of where he is hits him like a trainwreck and has him bolting upright in bed.

The soft brightness of the room hurts his eyes, so he immediately closes them. The glimpse of the room he’d gotten is a stark reminder as to why he’s here, what he’s doing. Yesterday, he’d gotten so caught up in the newness of all of it, the sheer culture shock, that it’d been hard to keep his eye on the prize. He’s here for Phasma. She is the end-all and be-all of his purpose here. Yes, he needs to stay in the know so that he can open every avenue for  himself to search through, but he cannot get distracted.

It’s a lot to juggle.

But he can do it. Hux graduated at the top of his class in all of his schooling. Sure, he’s not a trained spy, but he’s very intelligent and he’s a great problem solver. Even though he has been presented with a situation quite a lot more complex than he originally prepared himself for, he knows that he’ll be able to make it work. After all, making it work is his only option.

He’s still not certain whether or not this cult is deadly, once pressured or angered or pushed -- so his life is literally on the line, here.

That makes everything a little easier to juggle, actually. With such high stakes, he simply cannot lose.

\--

“Breakfast?” Poe asks him from next to his bunk. Hux has already gotten up and changed into a fresh set of linen clothes. After his morning routine, he had made his bed and sat back down on it, a few books in his lap. He’d missed Poe getting up and heading to the bathroom, but by the looks of his damp hair dripping onto his own white linen shirt, he’s taken a shower. It’s all very -- normal. It still feels a bit like summer camp, in all honesty.

“Sure,” Hux says, closing his book he’d been perusing and stacking the pile on his bedside table. He hadn’t really been able to absorb much of it, anyway.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Hux assumed that it would be more crowded, but it’s apparently late enough in the day that most of Harmony, Level 1 is already at work. At least that’s what Poe tells him, anyway.

“So, what,” Hux asks, after a gulp of orange juice, “does everyone just pick a job they’re good at and have at, in the name of helping out the First Order?”

“Didn’t Bettany tell you about the Enlightenment Center?”

She did. But the whole thing sounded a bit bogus to Hux when he’d first heard it. He wants to know what people _think_ about that -- especially someone like Poe, who is relatively new, just like himself. Hux doesn’t want the opinion of someone who’s been here for long enough to grow complacent. And god forbid he talks with someone who was _born here_. He hadn’t considered that possibility, before he came in. Now that he knows just how old the cult is, that there are _generations_ here -- he actually has to change his tactics. The older people, the ones who have been here a while, or the younger ones who have been born here -- there’s not much point in trying to relate to them. It’d be like relating to someone in a different culture entirely. Why would they think something is strange, if that’s all they’ve ever known?

“But that can’t be it, can it? What if someone’s a doctor -- wouldn’t it be useless, trying to lump them in with the carpenters?” Hux himself is a doctor, but not that kind. He doubts there are many virologists working in the fields of the First Order. People like him -- well, they just don’t end up in cults. Hux thinks better of himself, of his years of tireless study and research, than that. He wouldn’t dare just pour his life down the drain, and he doesn’t think many of his peers would, either.

Poe looks at him incredulously, a little bit like Hux is _dumb_. Hux doesn’t like it. “Hux,” he says, “the Force would know better.”

_Oh, okay,_ Hux thinks -- like that makes any difference. “How?”

Now Poe looks at Hux like he’s absolutely stupid. “The Force is everywhere, Hux. It is in everything, it _is_ everything. It would make the best decisions about people’s lives and what would make them the most happy. It’s much better at that sort of thing than we are.” Poe finishes off his own juice and continues, “there’s no question here about what career we _should_ take to appease a family member or our own self interests. There’s no ‘ _I should do this, even though I want to do that.’_ No guilt, no compunction. It really is the best way to do things. You’ll see.”

Hux has probably been a bit too disbelieving of the whole thing -- he’s here, after all. But then again, Bettany didn’t seem at all perturbed to find that Hux wasn’t already conforming with the beliefs when he arrived. After all, the First Order is so private -- there’s no way he would have known. He’ll just heave to follow a curve of belief, of falling into it, just like anyone else, would.

“That...makes sense,” he lets himself say.

Poe nods. “Doesn’t it?”

After breakfast they go back to their barracks to gather their books and find somewhere to read. Poe had asked Hux if he’d like company for the day, and Hux had nodded his assent. He doesn’t necessarily feel comfortable enough here, yet, to go snooping on his own. Having someone already trusted by his side will make him seem like he’s integrating, like he’s interested. Also, Hux has to admit that it makes him feel less alone.

They settle on top of a grassy hill, under an old and towering oak.

The grass is soft and lush, and Hux spreads his books and notebooks out in front of him after sliding off his shoes. As much as he talked before, Poe seems quiet and content to simply read and study.

The reading is just about as dull as it had been the previous night. Hux isn’t too keen on reading the family histories of the founding fathers of the First Order, and he really doesn’t _care_. He skims over most of the finer details and makes note of a few names -- apparently they are still active in the cult itself. Maybe they’re all over in Level 2, past the giant wall Hux noticed yesterday. Or, he thinks, maybe there’s other, higher levels in different places. He hasn’t seen anything other areas that have been strictly off-limits, but it’s a big valley. And it was a long drive here -- there’s nothing to say that there aren’t other areas Hux doesn’t even know about.

The next chapter is more about the Force itself, detailing how omnipresent and omnipotent it is. Impressively, it frames everything with a nice bit of pseudo-science, so if Hux squints (and ignores years of rigorous academic training), he can almost understand someone thinking the whole thing was plausible. He can’t help but think of Hubbard and his marketing of his own “church” to those who feel more inclined toward academic pursuits, but still feel the pull of religion: Hux has never understood the draw of Scientology, with its aliens and it’s E-Meters, not to mention its absolute rejection of modern day psychiatry. At least -- and he hates to even think this -- the First Order’s ideas seem far more realistic. Even plausible, in comparison.

The Force, he thinks, could be easily compared to a God. He imagines that it would be easy to swap out one for the other, in circumstances where people joining the cult believe in a god, anyway. Given the demographics of the area, most of these people probably do. Or did, anyway.

The First Order’s concept of Balance in the Universe seems pretty on par with what Hux knows about Buddhism, at least from what he remembers from undergrad, anyway. It’s -- well, it’s a beautiful way to look at the world, if he’s being honest. It’s the sort of religion he thinks might appeal to him, as a man of science and rationality, if he were so inclined. He’s not, though -- he’s never felt the pull of it, the need to believe in something higher, something more complex than himself -- other than just admiring the intricacies and complexities of life itself. But he cannot argue that the idea is not without appeal. The idea that the universe is inherently and intrinsically balanced, interconnected and complex, is a comforting thought. It’s better than the chaos Hux sees in his own science, in mankind and in nature.

It is appealing to him, theoretically, just as Scientology is to many others.

Eventually, after his mind starts to get clogged with sheer overload of rather-dull information,  Hux sets _A Brief Introduction_ down and peruses his other books, even though they are smaller. Perhaps they are a bit easier to slug through.

When he looks up, he finds that Poe has shifted, and is now lying on his stomach. He’s looking at Hux with something like a smile. “You were pretty engrossed there, for a while,” Poe says.

Hux just nods. He was, but only because he’s a good study.

“It’s kind of a dull read,” Poe tells him. “It’s not like you’re tested on it or anything, if you want to skip parts.” It doesn’t look like Poe has skipped anything at all. His own book is well worn with dog-eared pages and notes covering each page.

“I’m finding it enjoyable,” Hux tells him. It’s not the worst. He hadn’t really prepared himself for studying like this, but it’s something that comes easily to him, so he doesn’t mind. Anything that gives him more information about the First Order is helpful. It just happens that he’s getting more information than he ever thought.

If all the people here are this well-educated about the origins of the cult, about its doctrines, it’s surprising that more of it hasn’t slipped into the outside world.  There are always people who fall between the cracks and slip away in the dead of the night, no matter how well-patrolled the confines are: surely someone must have left it at some point, right?

But, as far as Hux knows, they either haven’t left, or they’ve been tight-lipped about it if they have. Neither of those options bode particularly well.

Poe slides a book over at him. It’s thin and worn -- likely full of notes and dog-ears just like Poe’s other books. “You might like this one. I picked up a copy in the Library. Lucky for me they had a copy I could keep. You can borrow it, if you don’t mind my notes.”

The book is titled, _Finding Enlightenment through the Force: A Guide to Meditation and Self-Discovery_. It makes Hux want to yawn. But, then again, it’s different than what he has been reading, so he accepts it with a nod.

Poe goes back to reading and Hux cracks open his new book.

Immediately, the writing is far more accessible than _A Brief Introduction_ , which seems neither brief, nor exactly an introduction as much as a complete guide. The first chapter of _Finding Enlightenment_ is less about facts or knowledge, and seems a bit more like a how-to manual. After one page of introduction, Hux is surprised with an exercise to complete.

He follows the instructions with a mental eye-roll and tries to clear his head of all thoughts. This first exercise doesn’t necessitate closing his eyes or finding an uncomfortable way to sit, but instead it suggests observe the world around him from a place of comfort on the ground. During this observation, he is meant to contemplate on the nature of the force, to see how it connects everything around him. He’s not sure how exactly he’s supposed to do that without thinking, but he doesn’t think this whole thing is very well thought out, anyway.

But he does it anyway, because it gives him a great excuse to observe the compound, at least from his present vantage point.

Atop his grassy hill, under the shade of the oak, Hux can see many fields and people in them, working. He can see a few farm-like buildings, which he assumes house animals, as one of them abuts a field with brown and black cows, most of which are happily grazing. There are a few other buildings he can see if he turns slightly, closer to the center of Harmony, which he assumes are residential.

After familiarizing himself with the layout and the terrain, he focuses his gaze on the fields and the people there. Most of the workers are in the cream-colored clothing, though he can spot a few white clothes-wearers, just like him. Most people seem to be wearing shirts and trousers, but a every once in awhile someone is in robes more reminiscent of monks, Hux thinks. Just like before, he is presented with more genetic diversity than he originally assumed he’d find. People are dark and tan and pale, and every shade in between.

He cannot help but scan the fields for shockingly blonde hair, like Phasma’s, but he finds none. So much for them dooming her to days of working, if she was enslaved against her will -- all of these people seem happy, even jovial, to be doing their jobs.

The people take breaks when they need to, and converse with each other while working. Others walk through the fields with refreshments and food, and the workers help themselves to what is offered. It’s -- very casual. Very relaxed. Nothing like what Hux expected out of brainwashed labor.

He pauses to consider that perhaps the food is laced with drugs. It could be, but it’s unsustainable. And Harmony’s inhabitants have been here for too long for that sort of treatment. The older workers -- Hux sees them with their grey hair and wrinkles -- seem just as happy and healthy as the younger ones. Sure, they are limited by their age, but they seem no less able, nor happy, than the youth.

Hux is staring off into the mid-distance, letting his eyes glaze over under the pretence of meditation when he sees it: a flash of black robes amongst all the white.

Slowly and without a clear destination, a figure clothed in all black has begun wandering the fields.

At first, Hux thought that he could have passed it off as a shadow, as his eyes playing tricks on him. His mind had gotten so used to seeing only light-colored clothing that anything else was clearly just his own imagination. But his own eyes don’t deceive him: there is clearly someone wandering the fields, clothed in pitch-black robes. Hux tracks his progress with his eyes, without trying to look like he’s looking -- just in case. Hux can’t tell much from far away, but the fabric of his clothing looks rough. Not at all soft and comfortable like the linen that Hux is wearing. A hood covers the figure’s head, but when the person turns and finally walks in Hux’s direction, Hux can see the cut of a pale, harsh jawline.

Hux holds his breath until the figure turns and walks away once more. Only then does Hux turn to look at Poe, who still has his nose buried in a book.

“ _Psst_ ,” Hux whispers quietly, and Poe looks up. “Who’s that?” He nods toward the field, to where the figure in black is meandering around people and crops, unbothered by their own surroundings. It’s as if they are in a completely different world, disconnected from this reality and merely passing through.

“Not sure,” Poe says. He sounds un-fussed and uninterested, which is the opposite of what Hux wants out of the answer. It’s _weird_ , suddenly seeing someone in all black -- and Hux has to know all the answers. Who are they? Are they an outcast? No one seems to be acknowledging them at all, so that could be the case. Or are they perhaps living in one of the other levels of the compound? Hux would think that people would pay attention, though, to that sort of thing.

“Not _sure_?” Hux says, hoping his expression asks more than his words do.

Poe merely shrugs again. “That’s just one of the Knights. You don’t see them often, but they’re around.” That’s all that Poe gives him.

Hux’s heart thuds in his chest, unbidden. He’s not sure why he can’t shake the sudden sense of foreboding within him -- he’s not prone to that sort of thing -- but he simply can’t. Fear grips icily at his chest and kickstarts his heart into beating far too fast. Perhaps it’s the instinctual fear of someone whose face you cannot see. Or perhaps it’s the fact that all the other titles Hux has heard have been religious in nature. _Knight_ speaks more toward something militaristic, than anything else. Or perhaps Hux has just had a long day already, and he’s becoming prone to paranoia.

Poe goes back to his book and Hux goes back to watching the mysterious figure pace the fields.

The figure keeps up their pacing for a good hour. Hux keeps up his pretend-meditation for about the same amount of time, though he does pause occasionally to read sections of _Finding Enlightenment_ , so that at least he has some knowledge of what it looks like he should be doing.

After Hux finishes reading the last bit of the first chapter, he closes the book and looks up.

His eyes focus forward and -- standing at the edge of the field, closest to the grassy hill Hux is sitting on, is the hooded figure. Head tipped up and face exposed.

And he’s staring straight at Hux.

His eyes are wild and dark, and his gaze is piercing. For a moment, Hux feels like the man under the hood -- pale skin and dark hair, strangely stunning features -- is looking straight into his soul, seeing all. Hux has never felt the weight of a gaze like that before in his life. It simply exists: heavy, pinning him to the very spot he sits. And then, suddenly, it is gone and the weight is lifted.

The man turns, robes billowing around him, without a change of expression or even a hint of acknowledgement, and goes back the way he came. Out of the fields, past the buildings, and toward the center of town. Hux tracks him with his eyes until he is gone, vanished behind a structure and well on his way to wherever it was that he was going.

Hux feels cold, even though the day is warm.

When the sound of Poe’s book closing snaps Hux back to awareness, he realizes that he’s been staring into the middle distance for a long while, just letting his eyes glaze over, mind blank. It’s probably the closest he’s come to ‘meditation’ while sitting here, and he wasn’t even trying.

“Sorry,” Poe says when Hux turns toward him. “You looked in the zone -- I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“I don’t think I was really getting anywhere,” Hux says, truthfully.

Hux follows Poe to lunch, legs stiff from sitting for so long. They sit alone, again, as Poe respects Hux’s disinclination to integrate yet. He knows that he should, but it’s all very daunting. For a brief while at lunch, they are joined by a couple of people who simply wish to greet Hux and introduce themselves. He doesn’t catch their names, fatigued as he is, but Hux does smile and nod and put on his best friendly Seeker face.

After lunch, they relocate to a different grassy spot -- this time, closer to the center of Harmony. There’s a large field next to the first building that Hux was let into, with rows of tables and benches. They settle down on one, and spread out their books. “Easier on the back,” Poe tells him, though Hux assumes it’s just for a change of scenery.

From where he sits, he can see the temple, towering and majestic, looming on the hill above them. It looks out over Harmony like it’s keeping a watchful eye, Hux thinks. Perhaps it is a reminder for the people here, that they are never truly alone. Not that they really need a reminder, in their small houses and forced togetherness -- community is all around them. Not that anyone seems to mind.

Hux keeps an eye out for the black-clad, hooded figure, but he doesn’t see him again. Many people pass by, but only those wearing white or beige. Hux isn’t sure he particularly _wants_ to see him again, with the way the man stared at him, with the way his mere presence made Hux’s heart pound in his chest. But he’s intrigued. He wants to know more, but he doesn’t exactly know who to ask. If he pesters Poe too much, he’ll become a burden and wear out his welcome -- he has to save that avenue. He doesn’t want to start asking too much of anyone else, relative strangers, because then he’ll single himself out as too nosy.

His only option, for now, is to read.

Hoping he can find more information about the mysterious _Knights_ in one of his books, Hux buries his nose in _A Brief Introduction_ for hours. They break briefly for dinner, and then spend the rest of the evening back outside at the same table.

Eventually, Hux’s neck aches from bending over a book for hours, and his eyes burn from reading all day. He has to stop. He closes his book and stretches. Poe follows suit.

“Ready to go back --?” Hux pauses, glancing over his shoulders at the buildings he’s been mentally calling _barracks_ where they’re sleeping. He doesn’t know what to call them, and he assumes his own reference would be frowned upon. While some cults are militant, this one doesn’t seem to be, despite mentions of Knights. They might take offence at the reference to military-housing. “Um,” he says. “I’m not sure what to call that building.”

Poe, as usual, merely smiles at him. Friendly and charitable. Hux wonders if he’s capable of anything else -- it sure doesn’t seem like it.

“Home, Seeker Hux,” Poe says. “You can call it _Home_.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, as per usual, to [littlesystems](https://littlesystems.tumblr.com/) for helping me make this a reality.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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